Not For Turning
by eitoph
Summary: M/M Modern AU. Mary Crawley: daughter of a great British political dynasty, keeper of her dysfunctional family's secrets and the woman holding the UK Government together with her bare hands, meets Matthew Crawley: politically inexperienced but with the power to make or break all she stands for. Power, romance and scandal ensue. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **With excitement and an enormous amount of nervousness, I bring you my first foray into the Downton fandom. Provided you all don't think I'm terrible and lame, this is hopefully the first in an eleven (ish) part Modern!AU set in the British political arena and will probably draw on a jaunty mash up of thrills, spills and sex scandals from my little wheelhouse of British and Australian politics.

There is a link in my profile to a **short accompanying guide to British politics** (also found at eitoph dot livejournal dot com) for those among you who are interested or find yourselves confused.

For those of you who were expecting Bones fic when my name popped up in your inbox, I'm sorry, but hey, former soldier with self-blame issues and romantic tendencies, along with a coolly logical, intelligent and determined love interest? It's practically the same ship when you think about it. You all should come play in my new DA sandbox.

Finally, thanks are owed to RositaLG and Tadpole24 for feedback and beta - especially the latter, who hasn't even started watching this show yet (get on that Em!).

* * *

**Not For Turning**

.

_Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren't. – Margaret Thatcher._

.

**One**

.

She switches on her television, mindlessly takes in the first few seconds of headlines before almost spraying her toast at the television.

_Jesus H. Christ._

Well, _this_ isn't exactly what she was expecting from Monday crack-of-dawn breakfast fare.

Coughing down the last catch of crumbs in the back of her throat, Mary takes a sobering sip of her tea. She allows herself a short groan of frustration – just the briefest moment when she doesn't have to own the problem or be surrounded by the shit storm that is about to become her start to the week – before resolutely shrugging it off.

Because, unfortunately, she's had to deal with this before.

Ian Laming – a man that doesn't understand the principle of keeping it in his trousers.

It wouldn't have been so bad, she supposed, if it were the first time. Or if he'd been at all consistent with the gender of the staffers he'd chosen to lavish with unwanted attention to the point that the _Daily Mirror_ saw fit to put their complaints on the front cover of their newspapers.

Or if Ian Laming wasn't the man propping up the numbers in Charles Carson's limping Tory Coalition, with Mary herself tasked with holding it together with, for all intents and purposes, tape and glue.

The ticker banner along the bottom of her morning news show taunts her for a few moments longer: _Male staffer, James Kent, comes forward with fresh sexual harassment claims against employer, embattled Independent MP and Carson Government supporter, Ian Laming_.

Yeah, just fabulous.

Choking down the last of her breakfast, she heads back towards her bedroom for her phone. It's only when she sees him, picking around the room for hastily discarded clothing and underwear that _that_ particular problem returns to the front of her mind.

Ah, _Patrick_.

"You must be looking for this," he holds up her phone, "It started buzzing like crazy about five minutes ago."

She snatches it from him with more force than strictly necessary, "And you didn't think to come and find me?"

He sort of grunts, "I just got out of bed. Flipping thing woke me up!"

Mary doesn't dignify this with an answer. Scrolling through her messages and missed call lists, she rolls her eyes and dials.

It's answered on the first ring.

"How the fuck did this happen, Mary?"

Oh yes, the delight that is her boss. She wonders if her grandmother would find that sort of language is really becoming of a Prime Ministerial Chief of Staff.

"Good morning to you too, Richard."

He doesn't even get past the pleasantries. "Fucking Ian Laming!"

Mary takes a steadying breath. "Well, what's done is done and there's no point getting angry, it'll only make things messier. We need to work out what we're going to do about him now."

"We should never have kept him around after the first time."

"If you recall Richard, that was what _I_ argued. It certainly wasn't _me_ that wanted to shield a veritable sexual predator after that Lauren girl came forward; if all for the sake of keeping up our numbers on the floor."

Her implication, a dark and veiled threat, lies just a few inches below the surface. It's a dangerous sort of game to play with Richard Carlisle, but she doesn't particularly appreciate his tone.

"Yes, well, I wouldn't be so quick to judge. Your father certainly seemed sure that it was the best course of action at the time."

It's a kind of dance. She skirts a little close to her resentment – of Richard, of his manoeuvring himself into a job that was supposed to be _hers_, of his hold over her father and her family, of her miserable mess of a life right now – and he reminds her, ever so carefully, how she's fixed.

Her _father_ agreed.

Her _father_, Robert Crawley, Conservative Party Chairman, a man with just enough mistakes under his belt to have attracted the attentions of former newspaper magnate, now turned political operative, Richard Carlisle.

Her father, who of course she understands she must protect at all costs.

It's a fucking mess.

Mary grits her teeth and forces the warmth back into her voice, "Look, I'll be in at the office in the next half hour and we can talk about it properly then. All we need is a _plan_."

"Don't I know it."

After the familiar succession of beeps indicate Carlisle has rung off, Mary turns her attention back to the disaster in her bedroom.

"So Ian Laming's at it again then?" Patrick asks.

She nods once, "And with a man this time. Apparently his tastes are varied."

"Jesus, Rob's going to lose his nut."

"I think you should probably head in now so you can slow him down before he does something rash."

As a senior figure inside the party and her father's right hand man, she's more than aware her choice of Patrick Gordon as a casual shag could have been better.

It could have been better on a few too many occasions.

This, she resolves (as she has done, again, on a few too many occasions before) will be the _last_ time.

"Right. That's a good idea."

She turns on her heels as he begins to dress, not looking as she shouts back to him, "The door will lock behind you. Don't bother calling later, I can already tell it's going to be one of _those_ days."

"What? Not even dinner later on?"

She stops half way out the door, but still doesn't turn. "Patrick..."

"C'mon Mary."

He likes her, or at least, likes the _idea_ of her. A lot more than she could ever like him. She knows how much her family wish that this was more than it is; her father is so fond of Patrick, looks on him as a son he never had – but for her, there's never been that sort of... spark.

It's just been an all too tempting offer to escape all the mess and to actually feel _desired._

"This was a mistake, Patrick. And it won't happen again."

She closes the door firmly behind her and doesn't give him the chance to respond.

.

_**Disaster for Carson Coalition**_

_Members of the cabinet descended on Downing Street early this morning as they met to discuss the latest developments with Culture Secretary, Ian Laming who has been accused by a male staff member, James Kent, of sexual harassment in the work place._

_Among the high profile names in attendance for the crisis talks were the Prime Minister, Charles Carson, his Deputy Prime Minister and Lib Dem Leader Richard Clarkson, Chief Whip Anthony Strallan, as well as Baron Crawley, the only son of Violet Crawley and the party's chairman. _

_Also spotted was Carson's Chief of Staff, Richard Carlisle, the magnate formerly behind the Britannia News Group that first published the scandal. He made no comment to reporters about this development when he arrived for the meeting._

_It is not known how the cabinet will choose to address the scandal at this time. Rumours circulated late last year about Laming's involvement with a female employee but he remained in his position in the cabinet and supporting the government. There had been much talk from the opposition about a cover up despite continued denials from Carson and his team._

_Commentators in Westminster have largely agreed that Laming's position as a Minister and even as a supporter of the government has become untenable and that he will be forced to resign from the Parliament. It is unclear what options will be available to the Government should it lose Laming's vote and any two of the other four independents he is thought to be able to influence on the floor of the House of Commons, although there has been some discussion about John Bates, leader of the new Britain First Party..._

.

It's not often, Matthew Crawley knows, that one gets summoned to 10 Downing Street before even having the chance to finish breakfast. And it's not at all what he was expecting when he took a job with John Bates not three months earlier.

He'd never exactly seen himself as a political operative as such; he'd studied law before joining the army and had spent the best part of the last five years in and out of Afghanistan. Though he'd thoroughly enjoyed his service, he also knew he was a lucky man to have the option to call time on his military career entirely on his own terms and had done so after a bit of scare that had gone something to the tune of 'serious spinal injury'.

He knew all too well that so many of his former colleagues hadn't had the same luxury.

After that, he'd returned to the law. It had always been the plan after all – a respectable stable profession fit for the upper middle class ideas that others (namely, his mother) seemed to have for him.

But it hasn't been _enough_, there wasn't that same sense of fulfilment that he'd become accustomed to from his work and he as time went by, he felt more and more unsettled in his own skin.

John Bates had been a client. It had been some fairly benign legal work that had introduced them but their common background – both soldiers, both seeking out something a little bit _more_ after their service – had given them a strange sort of common ground that had prompted Westminster's rising star MP and the leader of the newly-founded Britain First Party, to offer him a job overseeing his office in Westminster and generally managing his growing agenda.

It wasn't at all what he'd expected and exactly what he'd needed.

And now he's hovering outside the office of Number Ten's Deputy Chief of Staff.

"You can go in now, she's free." A mousey assistant, who'd endearingly invited him to call her Daisy, rouses his from his thoughts and waves him through.

Stepping over the threshold, he finally comes face to face with Mary Crawley.

"Matthew, I believe? I'm Mary."

She, too, is not at all what he expected.

She gives him this tight little smile that he struggles to read, not rising from her desk and instead indicating that he should sit in one of the chairs free before her. "Thank you for coming quickly."

"Yes, well, you didn't seem to leave me much choice when you called."

"I suppose I didn't. All the same, I appreciate it." There's something about her careful tone that, to an extent, lacks the sincerity he would have otherwise expected from her words.

"I imagine it's been a trying morning for you."

Again, there's her mysterious smile. It must be an invaluable little trick she's mastered because he finds himself a little lost and at the same time a little dazzled by this elegant form carefully perched across from him.

"You mean Laming? Well it wasn't entirely unexpected, but I suppose you're right. He's certainly landed us in a bit of a bind."

"Can I ask what you're going to do with him? Certainly, you won't be keeping him around now?"

"No. The PM has already demanded his resignation from the Commons. It's not, conventionally speaking, within his power to do so, but Anna our Communications Director has a somewhat pointed statement ready to go should he fail to see the merits of going quietly."

"I see."

"It does, however, leave us with a bit of a problem. With Laming gone, we lose his vote on the floor and as far as we can tell, those of about four of his rather misguided supporters."

He can see where this is going, "Which puts you exactly three votes short in the Commons of any kind of stable government."

"A hung parliament is not a kind thing."

"That all depends on who you're asking. As far as I can tell, a hung parliament is about to have the great Mary Crawley asking _me_ a favour."

She seems almost... impressed. "Am I that transparent?"

"Why else would you want me here before breakfast?"

"Perhaps I'd heard that John Bates had a rather charming Chief of Staff and wanted to see for myself."

A thrill runs through him, "Well, did you?"

She laughs. It's careful, measured, but genuine. "I have to say I did – but that's not why I asked you here."

There's such a big part of him that wants to know what it is she means and who exactly has been talking about him but there's something about the imposing form of the enormous political institution around him – _Number Ten_ – that sees him bite down on his curiosity and keep to the strictly professional. "Ah yes, your _favour_. I'm eager to hear what it is I can do to please one of Westminster's finest."

Well, there's professional and then there's _professional_.

He just can't quite help himself.

Though she doesn't address his turn at brash confidence directly, she leans in, drawing herself a little further into their exchange, "Your Mr Bates has done well for himself since the election. Our lot didn't think much of his ideas for a new political party when he started out – we don't like being proven wrong."

"Are you saying that you _have_ been proven wrong?"

She tips her head, "Well, something like that."

Matthew can't help but smile, "I think I'd like to hear you say so."

"You know, you show a great deal of confidence for some from the doldrums of the backbench sitting in the office of a Prime Minister."

"The office of a Prime Minister who needs _my_ help. That much we've established."

"Technically we need Bates' help."

"Because you want his vote?"

Finally, it is put plainly before him. "His vote, and the vote of the four others who've joined his party."

It's not like he wasn't expecting it of course, anyone with half a brain could have seen where this was headed when he'd received a high-handed phone call not half an hour earlier.

What he doesn't know, and what he needs to be able to tell Bates, is how Carson and his team expect it all to work going forward.

He asks the question that's being turning over in his mind since he left for their meeting, "How do you suppose it all would work? The whole point of Britain First was to break away from major party ideas, I'm not sure how easily Mr Bates will be convinced to cow tow to Carson and his friends just because the Deputy Chief of Staff asked me nicely."

"You think I'm being nice?" It appears she rather likes this suggestion.

"As charming as you may be Miss Crawley, it doesn't make Bates any more likely to help out your man in the Parliament."

"For all your protestations, I think Bates and his colleagues should seriously consider what I have to say before they make any decisions."

His charm and his careful ignorance to their suggestions to this point have all been a practised front. Feeling a little like the David to Mary Crawley and Number Ten's Goliath, it's been the best, and really the _only_, way he could see to stay above their game.

But now they seem to have reached the crux of the matter, he allows himself to be serious, "So what is it exactly that you have to say? What are you offering?"

"You must know that the BFP have voted with the Government on something like 72% of bills before the House."

"You've done some research, I see."

"I find that it's hard to lose an argument when you have facts on your side."

She speaks like someone who is very rarely wrong.

Shrugging it off, Matthew replies, "Well I wouldn't have been able to tell you the exact number, but I knew it was reasonably high. We happen to agree on many things, but then, I get the distinct impression we also happen to disagree on many things."

"I would say we disagree on fewer things than we agree. When it comes to party politics, isn't that all you can ask for?" She gives him a moment to think on this, but when he doesn't respond directly Mary adds, "I'd say agreeing with our policies almost three quarters of the time are some better odds than those you'd see out of some of our own MPs at the moment. They do what they're told in the Parliament of course, but behind closed doors it certainly hasn't been an easy few years."

"Well, the influence of coalition government isn't helping you there." Matthew may be new to Westminster, but it doesn't mean the nature of Charles Carson's problem escapes him, "The Lib Dems getting to have their say on every issue passing across the government's desk is angering your party faithful and at the same time, softening your agenda and making it all the more agreeable to centreist parties like the BFP."

He needs to show her that he's not some fool, that he actually understands the intricacies of the situation and that he's not to be underestimated.

When she continues quite plainly, he can't tell if it's worked, "But that's just it – doesn't that level of influence appeal to you? Or to the elusive Mr Bates?"

He's intrigued – surprised even – by how far they're willing to go. "You mean as another coalition partner?"

"Yes. You join us, you get a genuine say in the dealings of the British government. We're willing to go so far as to offer your leader a cabinet position, to truly bring him into the fold."

He feels like there ought to be a catch. "Won't that mean just another set of interests for your lot to compete with? You're either setting out to dilute your message further or to lead Bates and his colleagues up the garden path and I can assure you, they won't take the latter lightly."

"I'm well aware, and I'm not above admitting that we need your help." There's something about the way she says it that feels genuine, "If we end up having to soften our message for your sake, well then that's just the will of the people at work. For the first time in living memory, the major governing party doesn't have enough seats to rule in its own right and that's just how it works. Isn't letting the small interest groups have their say supposed to be good for democracy?"

For the first time in their meeting, he gives an inch, "I suppose you're right."

"I usually am."

Matthew doesn't doubt it.

For a long moment he thinks seriously about what Mary has suggested – it's a generous offer and much more than the show of bravado he was expecting when he was first summoned. This isn't a government flexing its muscle to try to scare he and the people he's working with into submission and he has to respect that much.

He also has to admit this could be a very big opportunity.

"You know it's not my decision to make."

Mary nods, "I was expecting as much."

"I'll certainly encourage Bates to think seriously about your proposition."

"That's all I ask."

He rises in his place and extends a hand that's warmly accepted.

"Thank you for your time, Mr Crawley. I hope it hasn't been in vain."

"And to you too. Though, I can't say the chance to come here and to see Downing Street and the famous Mary Crawley for myself could ever really be in vain."

He leaves her with her coy little smirk and doesn't turn back as he heads straight out of her office door.

There's a sort of buzz that has him feeling good as he goes – a mix of confidence and surprised satisfaction – but it all fizzles out when he's stopped on his way by a face he knows well, even if it's a face he's never seen it in person.

The body language is all wrong; arms crossed, lips set into a firm line and a bit of a sneer about him as the ominous figure peers him over and he's forced to stop.

"You must be that Matthew Crawley they're all talking about."

"...That's correct." He extends his hand to shake, "Richard Carlisle, I believe."

"Well at least you know what's what around here. Can't have you not knowing who's boss." It's supposed to be some kind of joke, but Matthew can taste the threat underneath Carlisle's words.

"That's yet to be seen."

"Oh dear; that sounds a little ominous. Our Mary can't have done her job right if she doesn't have you convinced."

Something about the suggestion riles him, "On the contrary, I think she's extremely good at what she does, it's just not up to me. I'm off to see Bates now, so I'm sure you'll have your answer soon."

Carlisle claps him on the arm once, his affected smile still in place, "I look forward to it."

Matthew watches him go and can't shake an uncomfortable feeling.

Because while Mary Crawley may have been a pleasant surprise, Richard Carlisle is a _creep_.

.

Skimming through the rack in her kitchen, Mary quickly finds the bottle she's looking for, twists off the top and pours a generous glass.

She knows tonight, she really deserves it.

"Can I get you more, Anna?" She looks over to the couch, holding up the cab sav as an offering.

"Yes please."

Anna is her dearest friend and the Downing Street Communications Director. She's neither particularly political one way or the other, nor the most experienced name that had been thrown around when the Carson campaign team had been first put together, but there is something about her level head, her diplomacy and her wit that has seen her do well in the role.

Mary had first met Anna at university; she'd been studying law and Anna, public relations. It had been a time of upheaval for Mary, struggling to cross the class divide that she'd become so used to as the privately schooled granddaughter of a Prime Minister, daughter of a Peer, surrounded until that point by wealth and wealthy people. Anna had been the first person to call her out on the air of superiority that she'd projected in her dealings with other students and the first person to look past her privileged background and see her as merely a friend.

When Carson had first asked Mary to help put together a team capable of winning a general election more than two years earlier, Anna hadn't just been a sentimental pick and she'd more than proven herself through the trials that had followed.

Mary can only laugh on those occasions that she allows herself to think of it – when it comes to the choices she'd made for her Carson, Anna had been the dark horse that had stolen away one of the top spots while she instead had been the obvious choice that had seen her dream job slip right through her fingers.

After a particularly generous sip from her glass, she takes the wine with her and collapses onto her couch, returning to a conversation that had been put on hold only long enough for Mary to open their next bottle. Having finally escaped after ten for dinner together, they've already covered Mary's obligatory disaster-sex-with-Patrick story and speculated on her father's no doubt comic reaction to the morning's revelation but Anna seems a lot more interested in a certain other man of note from Mary's rather eventful day.

She's barely settled herself back in her place when Anna begins, "So this Matthew bloke, is he any good?"

Mary takes a moment. "He's... very switched on."

"That's high praise coming from you."

"Is it? I didn't know things were so bad I was supposed to be surprised every time I met someone that knows how to do their job."

"Come off it, you know that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I'm just surprised you didn't leave the meeting thinking he was some kind of sea monster; in the job a couple of months means he's barely off the bus – being sent to ask him for help can't have been an easy task."

"Well, I sent for _him_ – let's not worry that we've sunk that low just yet. But in all fairness, Matthew was... quite a reasonable person to deal with." Mary lets out a long sigh, "It feels like such a rare occasion these days that I get to work with someone who seems to be reading from the same page as I am, I think he managed to get me to show my hand a little more easily than I would have liked."

At this, Anna laughs, "A rare occasion? With you I would say it was almost never. I didn't think I'd see the day you'd admit it either."

Mary shoots her a look, "I'll happily admit I've met a worthy opponent when they are indeed _worthy._ If that doesn't happen often, that's not my problem."

"So you're saying Crawley is worthy, are you?"

"He's... charming. If you're into that. And he's intelligent."

"Are _you_ into that? You're being unusually generous."

"No! Of course not; I _am_ capable of being nice." Mary rubs at her eyes tiredly, "It's been a hard few months, it's just nice to come across someone who isn't a complete sleaze – or worse, a moron."

For now at least, Anna lets it lie and Mary is grateful not having to think or explain much further.

"Speaking of morons, what did Carlisle have to say about all the mess today?"

"Oh, not a lot. He phoned some time around five in the morning to get a few choice swear words in but I barely saw him the rest of the day. I think he came by the office in the morning but you know what he's like, this was _my_ problem to solve."

"Well I can't imagine Richard Carlisle would have had the finesse needed to smooth things over today."

Mary laughs darkly at the thought; Carlisle's idea of diplomacy is thinly veiled threats and intimidation. She can only imagine how it might have gone if Matthew had been instead summoned to his office this morning to be harassed by her boss's special variety of negotiation.

"You make it sound like everything's sorted. Matthew merely agreed to take my suggestion to Bates for his consideration. It remains to be seen what Bates will actually have to say."

"But you said it sounded promising."

"I suppose I got an impression. I could be completely wrong though, Matthew Crawley has thus far never quite done what I've expected."

"Do you think they understand how important it is?"

"You mean, do they realise that if they don't agree we'll probably end up at the polls with next to nothing to show for almost two years in government?"

Anna nods over a long pull from her wine glass.

"I think Mr Crawley is better acquainted with the realities of minority government than half of Westminster right now. I just hope I'm not wrong about him and I hope he can get that boss of his to recognise a good deal when he sees one."

Anna has this serious sort of look that Mary associates with her somewhat regularly imparted nuggets of wisdom. Across the couch, she recognises that familiar light in her friend's eye and the set of her mouth as she says, "That's an awful lot of hope for one person."

The funny thing is, Mary knows she's right.

.

_**Bates and BFP courted for Commons votes**_

_With the Tories' tenuous grip on power in the balance, it is understood that senior Conservative Party figures have approached MP John Bates and leader of the up and coming Britain First Party for his support on his floor._

_Prime Minister Charles Carson had little to say on the matter during recent public appearances; after a press conference on Monday condemning Mr Laming's actions, welcoming his resignation and declaring that he was confident that stable government could continue without the former Member playing a part, he has refused to comment further. The famously stoic PM has appeared unmoved by yet another scandal, maintaining a full schedule of appointments since the story first broke._

_John Bates' rise in British politics has been meteoric. Entering Parliament at the last election as the sole member of his party, a fortunate mix of defections and by-elections have seen the numbers within the BFP now rise to five. Strong on family values, sustainability and community infrastructure the BFP's general ethos has proven more palatable for the electorate at large than many other minor parties looking to make a name for themselves in London. Their views have also been largely compatible with those of the Tory/Lib Dem Coalition, voting with the Government a majority of the time. _

_While their initially small numbers meant the BFP was never a contender when the tenuous Coalition was formed after the election almost two years ago, their remarkable growth and this apparent agreement on key policy areas has lead some commentators to suggest their support is an obvious fix for the Government's current problems._

_Sources in Westminster have said the approach to Bates has been made carefully and without involving the Prime Minister directly. Wary of tying himself further to this scandal and being seen to strong arm the BFP leader, Carson has instead kept his distance and has thrown himself into public engagements across the country._

Picture: PM Charles Carson at the opening of a new secondary school in York.

_It's not known how Bates has responded to the Government's advances, with the Member having failed to make a public appearance since the Laming's story surfaced and he became the focus of talks about the Tories' future. Most commentators agree that accepting a deal with the Government, one that is likely to include a cabinet position for Mr Bates, would be a good move for the_

_He has not returned _The Times'_ calls for comment..._

.

"So you're telling me that the whole matter is to be seen to by two people who are for all intents and purposes tax-payer funded _lackeys_?" She spits the words out as though filth, her eyes wide with incredulity.

"Oh Granny, do you really think _me_ somebody's lackey?"

"Mary, my dear, while you know I have the utmost respect for your chosen vocation, this is the sort of business that must be handled by those in the highest positions of power. The future of the British Government must not be decided by the faceless and unelected."

Violet Crawley is a political legend. As the country's first female Prime Minister, she'd spent the best part of the eighties (and most of Mary's early childhood) trying to drag Britain out of recession and had become a national treasure on the back of her iron will, quick wit and capable use of home truths.

Though her grandmother's strong opinions and candid honesty can often make for some trying exchanges, Mary has long since taken it upon herself to come for tea whenever political scandal is afoot. Yes, Violet Crawley may be senior in years, but her insights remain surprisingly relevant.

"I acted upon the direction of the Prime Minister and his Cabinet – they all agreed we ought to test the waters with Bates and I made sure the whole approach was a clean as possible. It's very hard for Carson you know, he can't be seen to be chasing after anyone who'll give him their vote."

"That sounds awful like a problem I had with some of my Cabinet Ministers; except it wasn't votes so much as _sexual favours_."

Her mix of earnest concern and amused reflection makes Mary laugh. If nothing else, these brief meetings always more than a little enlightening.

Coughing down a sip of tea, Mary tries to explain, "But you see how the same principle applies?"

"It's the look of the thing that matters, I know that as well as anyone." With a sniff, she moves onto her next concern, "What of this Bates fellow? Do they really think he'll abandon the lofty heights of his so-called impartiality to support the Government? Hung parliaments really are such _messy_ things."

"That seems to be the expectation."

"The expectation or the _hope_?"

"A little of both, I imagine. They've offered him big things, things they think will be hard to walk away from so now it's just a matter of hoping he can see the value in them."

"Hmm," She purses her lips as she considers this piece of information, "He's the crippled one, isn't he?"

"Granny! You're really not supposed to use words like that anymore."

"Then what shall I call him?"

"He's a war hero – he injured his leg serving in the Gulf."

"Well doesn't that make for a story the press will eat up; I find the more pain and suffering there is involved, the more the media seem to enjoy it."

This is a truth that Mary can't exactly disagree with. Richard Carlisle, everyone's least favourite media tycoon, has more than seen to that.

She is schooled by her grandmother on the finer art of government for a little while longer (_"I don't understand this notion of _social media_. The media is not at all social – they are, for all intents and purposes, well dressed versions of farm animals. They barely know how to hold their knives, for Christ sake!"_) until her phone goes and she knows she can't afford much more time without facing some kind of major crisis when she returns.

As she goes to leave, Violet as stiff and proper as ever, pats her on the arm and tells her to get on with the job for the country's sake.

Sometimes, Mary decides, her grandmother knows just the right thing to say.

.

Mary isn't expecting to see him sitting by her office, two cups of coffee in hand, when she arrives at work a day and a half later.

"How did you get in here?"

Matthew Crawley is even more resourceful than she'd imagined if he'd managed to get around Downing Street security.

His half smile exudes confidence, "Maybe I'm just that good?"

It only takes the practised arch of an eyebrow.

"I called ahead to your assistant. She seemed happy to help."

"So the Matthew Crawley charm strikes again? You really ought to give Daisy a chance, poor thing."

"Oh, _again _is it? You think I'm charming?"

She's pretty sure she walked into that one.

"You know, my granny would tell you there's a point where confidence stops being quite so attractive."

"Good thing your granny isn't here then."

With a smile, she waves him into her unlocked office and swipes a cup of coffee from his hand.

"You _could_ say thank you."

She takes a sip and notes that he's also gone to the trouble of finding out her usual order. Though she's not one to concede lightly, there are some benefits to being nice that Mary can admit...

"Thank you, Matthew."

"You're very welcome."

For a moment, they seem to measure each other up across her desk.

"So, are you here to tell me you've got any kind of answer for me? Many of my colleagues have been, shall we say, _eager_ to put the matter to bed."

"And not you?"

"Of course I'd be pleased to have it all sorted out, but I understand that these things take time – I didn't want to push you unnecessarily."

He seems to appreciate this and smiles, "Well I'm here to tell you that I _almost_ have an answer for you."

"Almost?"

"I can't make things too easy for you, can I?" His smile widens to a grin.

"Trust me; in my line of work it's never easy."

"That I can believe."

She can scarcely let herself hope, "So am I to assume that this is a good 'almost' if you've gone to all this bother?"

Matthew nods slowly, "I would say it's pretty good. "

"Then what do I need to do to convince you once and for all?" There's no avoiding there's a little meaning behind the look that passes between them at her words.

"He wants to talk to Carson. Directly. No minders and no spin – he wants to hear all the promises from the horse's mouth."

Mary makes a show of considering this.

Bates, she decides, is a man who's got some game.

"I think I can manage that."

.

She pulls her coat in tighter for warmth and swings her legs over the edge of the community centre wall.

"Are you cold?" Matthew asks and when she nods, he shuffles further along their perch as some kind attempt at sharing body heat – a little ridiculous really given the gentlemanly distance he seems determined to maintain.

On Mary's word, they'd shown up on John Bates' doorstep, bundling him into a car and rushing him halfway across the city to the site of the PM's first engagement for the day. Sneaking him in the back entrance and shutting two of the country's most powerful men (be that a new honour bestowed or not) in the drab back room at a community centre that had seen better days, she can't help but smile at the unglamorous face democracy has taken on on a cold and unremarkable morning.

"He's a decent man, you know."

"Carson?"

"Yes. He's... very dear to me."

"I had a feeling."

"He worked for my father growing up, so I've always known him." She hesitates, "There are times, I suppose, when he was more of a father to me than the one that gave me his name."

She doesn't really know why she's telling him this – part of her wants to think it's to reassure him given the enormity of what's happening in the next room and to show him that Bates hasn't made the wrong choice but then, she's not sure that would be the whole truth.

"Is that why you're still working for him then, even though Carlisle's a creep on a power trip?"

Mary should be surprised that he would see and that he would _understand_. She doesn't know how he's stumbled onto the right track when it comes to their complicated office dynamic but she's grateful for a new ally.

Matthew seems like a good kind of ally to have.

"It's... something like that, yes."

"I can admire that."

Her legs swing against the wall for a long and pensive moment. She doesn't know how to be anything but cryptic when she responds, "You might be the only one. I'm not sure I admire _myself_ most of the time."

He seems to be reaching for the appropriate way to react to her words when the door opens and their respective employers step into the cold.

It's a proud smile and a nod from Carson, the best kind of 'well done' she can ask for from the most unmoving man she knows, that finally makes her feel a little better after three days of mess.

It's not much, but from Carson, it's all it takes.

Moving to slide off her perch on the wall she elbows Matthew, "Looks like we're going to be seeing a lot of each other from now on."

She doesn't look back as satisfaction buzzes through her.

Yes, things are finally looking up.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 8 March 9:51 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Press conferences

Why does no one tell you they're a complete pain in the arse when there are people that actually think they're important?

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 8 March 9:53 AM

To: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Subject: Re: Press conferences

There, there, I'm sure you can live up to the pressure; I always took you for a tough little thing. It's only the future of British democracy we're talking about here.

Also, my emails get FOI'ed a lot. Take this as a friendly suggestion not to put in an email anything you don't want to see splashed on the front of _The Guardian_ one day.

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 8 March 9:58 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Press conferences

I'll have you know, I am never would never dream of my emails being anything but proper and wholly appropriate for the workplace. I apologise in advance to _The Guardian_ if that makes me a disappointment.

Oh, and tell Anna I just sent her John's speech notes. She wanted to double check them before the presser later.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 8 March 10:01 AM

To: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Subject: Re: Press conferences

Take it from a posh girl Mr Crawley, too much propriety is over rated.

.

"What are you smiling at?" Anna asks from the doorway.

"Nothing."

"Of course..." She's far from convinced and whether or not she thinks it related, adds, "Your new _friend_ just sent me through Bates' speech for today – did you also want to have a look before the thing this afternoon?"

"I don't appreciate your tone."

"I say it as I see it."

Mary ignores this, "Well, no, I don't need to look. I trust you and Alfie will make sure everyone's on message and saying all the right things."

"Fair enough," Anna turns to leave, "Oh by the way, your father's about this morning – I think he's looking to see you before he goes."

"Oh lord. Why is he here?" Mary groans.

"It might have something to do with today's big announcement, perhaps? The Cabinet has been floating around and I hear he has an interest when it comes to this sort of thing."

She smiles at Anna's sarcasm, "The perils of being related to the party Chairman, I suppose?"

"What perils? What are you talking about?" A booming male voice from the outer office sees Mary roll her eyes and Anna bite back a laugh.

She flaps for a moment, trying without words to get Anna to stay as some kind of defence mechanism against Hurricane Robert Crawley but her friend instead turns on her heels with an amused arch of an eyebrow, headed back the way she came.

Mary fixes a smile to her face, "Nothing, Papa."

"How's everything going for today?"

"Perfectly fine." Her response is shallow and designed to shut down too much further questioning – an inflection that obviously, her father ignores.

"I hear you've been working with Bates' Chief of Staff to set it all up; Matthew is it?"

A nod, "Matthew Crawley."

"Crawley?"

"No relation. At least none that I know of."

"Probably for the best. Could get awkward having one of their lot in our midst."

A familiar indignation and affront colours her response – he too often lets his inner snob show, "Papa!"

"Well it's true; we're a good Conservative family." The way his chest puffs out just a little makes Mary want to laugh. Her father is a proud man and a man whose position in life makes him feel more important than he really is.

For all her frustration and the careful distance she has long since maintained from her family, she mostly just feels sorry for him. Grappling for power, and even relevance, The Lord Crawley is more of a victim of his own misfortune and poor choices than he would care to admit.

"His party roots aside, he's good at what he does. You should be glad that he's saved your political skin."

This suggestion seems to rub him the wrong way, "Don't think that all this hasn't done them a favour as well. We've made Bates a key player with all this – and I'm sure this Matthew will enjoy the move to Whitehall as well; healthy pay bump, if I remember correctly."

"I don't think eight thousand pounds a year is the reason we're not facing a No Confidence vote the minute Parliament resumes."

Robert doesn't look convinced, "You'd be surprised."

Not willing to continue with their conversation, all too aware of the ridiculous direction it seems to be taking, Mary moves back behind her desk and sets about devoting her attention to anything other than her father, standing there in front of her desk.

Perhaps she ought to check her emails again...

"Patrick mentioned you saw each other on the weekend."

Oh great.

"Uh, yes. I think it was Sunday. We only saw each other briefly."

He came round. They had sex.

It was _brief_.

"Now Patrick – _there's_ someone who's good at what he does. Patrick is going places, I'll tell you that much."

She looks back at her screen. It's a technique. "I'm sure he is."

"You know he likes you."

Urgh.

She deflects, deliberately obtuse and her tone carefully vacant, "We're very good friends Papa, as we always have been. We did grow up together."

"But you ought to think about the _future_, Mary."

"I just secured the fate of the British Government for the next three years. Isn't that enough _future_ for one day?"

"You know fine and well that that's not what I'm talking about."

"Just because Mama is in America right now doesn't mean you have to assume her duty as a mother to nag."

"I am not nagging; I just want what's best for you." He tries to soften his words but Mary can't help but bristle at the implication that she can't decide what's best all on her own.

"Well you should know I'm quite fine."

Fine in spite of his efforts and not because of them.

"Patrick understands your situation, he knows how important your work is and he shares your background; you must understand how important all of these things are."

"And am I to believe that's all that matters? Do you really believe that this and this alone is the recipe for happiness?"

"You're very close minded about these sorts of things – you've always been so determined, always on your terms. I'm just asking you to be more open to possibilities."

Her utter frustration bubbles over. She knows she really, really shouldn't – knows that she'll regret the cold words but she can't help but aim a rather pointed barb in return, "I'd rather not take advice on love and relationship from _you_ of all people. Have you spoken to Mama since she left for New York?"

His eyes go dark.

"Now that's just... That's-" He fumbles for the words in the face of his own fury.

Mary waves him off with the flick of a hand, her icy composure firmly back in place as she moves on without thinking on it all any further. "Is there anything else you needed?"

He opens his mouth, looking for whatever it is he wants to say but when the words don't seem to materialise it's closed once again. A moment later he admits defeat and replies, "No. That was all. Good luck with the press conference."

"Thank you."

She doesn't look up as he leaves, already typing an email.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 8 March 10:15 AM

To: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Subject: Re: Press conferences

You know what's worse than press conferences?

_Parents_.

.

*** MEDIA CALL ***

The Right Honourable Charles Carson MP, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, will host a joint press conference today, Thursday 8 March in the Downing Street gardens with the Right Honourable Richard Clarkson MP, leader of the Liberal Democrat Party and John Bates MP.

The conference will begin at 2.00pm. Please allow additional time for security screening as this is a **high security **event.

The Prime Minister, the Deputy Prime Minister and Mr Bates will answer questions on the future of the British Government and the outcome of recent coalition talks.

Media accreditation will be required.

*** MEDIA CALL ***

.

"We really ought to stop meeting like this."

Matthew had seen her somewhere behind the fray of staff and when the PM had first arrived and had at the time earned himself a rare Mary Crawley smile through all the rush.

Calm and in control, she's been the quiet picture of authority as the press have swarmed, pushed and generally shown a little too much excitement about their respective bosses' announcement. Something about her careful little smile seems at odds with the composed Deputy Chief of Staff so efficiently overseeing her second joint press conference from the Downing Street garden in as many years, announcing a shaky solution to a shaky Government's number problem.

He quite likes that.

Now the much-awaited event is well underway – the nation's Prime Minister firing off answers to questions with practised ease, his deputy as usual fumbling through and Bates surprising him with his ability to keep up and to hold his nerve – Matthew has finally found her alone, alternating between watching the proceedings and checking her phone.

She's again bundled in a jacket, a nice and presumably expensive jacket, but Matthew can only conclude from this that with her slight form, she must feel the cold of early spring in London bitterly.

Mary smiles at his greeting, "I don't know. I think we ought to get used to it, if everything those two up there are saying turns out to be true."

"I suppose there are worse things in the world," he laughs.

"Oh! It's good to know you think so highly of me," but she's getting into the spirit and far from being offended, she lets go a brief laugh.

His words are softer when he holds her gaze and replies, "But I do."

It's a sort of thrill that runs through him as her expression falters, some indecipherable emotion taking its place for a brief moment. There's just something a little... more to it all.

Except this is work and she's Mary _Crawley_ and he knows when he's getting away with himself.

He changes the subject, "So, have you solved your parental problems from earlier?"

She laughs again, but this time it's shorter and coarser. "Hardly. I'm afraid my family is the sort whose problems will never quite be _solved_."

"Ah, tortured rich people. They always make for the best kind of dysfunctional families."

It strikes him, however briefly, that this sort of comment might be crossing the line. He's never before felt the need to keep up a show on confidence the way he has since first meeting Mary– in the beginning it had been all about compensating for her obvious power and the prestige of the office of Prime Minster but the same burn, compelling him to always be ready with a quick retort has remained even now they have a deal and he knows Mary as someone he hopes to be a friend.

When she turns to him again, amused, the worry eases. "I'm glad to hear you are already well versed in the very serious problems of the wealthy."

"Oh, of course!"

"My father is unfortunately one of those people who once knew enough success earlier in his life that he forgot what it was like to not get what he wanted. Two adult daughters, a highly successful wife and a GFC later, he's beginning to learn it's not always that easy."

"I assume this means you've failed to comply with his wishes somehow?"

"Sometimes I wonder if to him, I'm just one big failure." Though her words are grim, she seems carefully unaffected by the suggestion.

"How could that be?"

"Because I work too hard, because I haven't settled down, because I never bring home _any_ of the right kind of men, because... Because I was more interested in working for Carson than I ever was working for him."

By the time she adds her last reason, her eyes are again fixed firmly on the man in question, standing solidly behind his podium.

"That... must be hard."

"Not really. I made my choice for the right reasons and I don't regret it."

"What were your reasons?" It feels like an awfully personal question, but it also feels right to ask.

"It's all the things I told you yesterday; Carson is the kind of man who's meant to be Prime Minister. He's come up against some tough circumstances but he believes only in what he thinks is right and stands by those beliefs – that's what I wanted to be a part of. I never wanted to be part of my father's empire and I never wanted to spend my life at the Downton Group, bored to tears by executives and boardroom talk day after day."

"Well from what I've read in the papers these last couple of years, you've made the right decision between the two career paths."

"Because I ended up getting passed over for the job I actually wanted working for Carson or because Downton almost went belly up?"

He's struck by her weariness and her utter resignation. He supposes he hasn't known her all that long, but he can't imagine the strong and determined woman he's come to know often allows herself to indulge in either emotion.

"Well I definitely meant the latter, but if you wanted to talk about that first one, you know I'm always here."

"You're good at it, you know."

She smiles at him again, and for that he's glad.

"Good at what?"

"Listening. Making people talk about things they shouldn't."

"I don't think _shouldn't_ is the right word. I think that everyone needs to take the time to share their troubles, even if it's only on occasion."

"And you don't mind having to listen to all my nonsense? My problems must seem... very small to you."

"Why would you think that?"

"The blatherings of an indulged rich girl and all that."

"I don't think you're blathering; far from it. And I mean it – I'm happy to listen if you ever need me."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She turns back to the press conference and Matthew feels a little bad that he appears to have completely missed the last ten minutes of what ought to be a very important moment in his career, so absorbed he was in their conversation. With special effort, he tries to focus on the words, once again reminding himself of the seriousness of the occasion.

It's not long though before she distracts him once again.

"Bates is doing well."

"Better than I thought. I thought he would drown standing next to Carson and that we'd have to hold out hope for another of Richard Clarkson's spectacular gaffes to make him look good by comparison."

"Now Matthew, have a little faith."

"I do! I can't help that the Prime Minister is an awe-inspiring sort of man. But like a very wise and principled woman once told me, you should work for someone for the right reasons and I _do_. I have every faith that Bates will do good things with his newfound power and authority."

"The Secretary for Communities and Local Government no less. It sounds like it should be a good fit for Bates."

"I hope so; I'm still getting to grips with what it all means. They're talking about swearing him in tomorrow and then we have to worry about a new office and new staff..."

She places a reassuring hand on his arm, "You'll be fine – it's not all as hard as it looks and if you need anything, you happen to have a friend inside the Prime Minister's office."

As her hand lingers in its spot and he smiles down on her gratefully, Matthew realises that this is the first time she's touched him like this.

The press conference finishes not long after and as soon as all three men step back from their line a rush picks up and a fair swarm of people seem to need Mary, all demanding her attention in different directions.

Just as she goes to turn away, she seems to remember, "Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"Come by my office later; I have a present for you."

She shoots him her cryptic, gorgeous little smile before being swallowed by the crowd.

As he sucks in a lungful of air and tries to rearrange his features into something a little more serious, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Pulling it out and checking the name, he turns off the ringer.

It can wait.

Right now he has better things to think about.

.

He isn't expecting a knock on his door a little after eight and it takes him longer than usual to stumble from his couch to the door.

And when he opens it, he also isn't expecting who he finds standing on the other side.

"Mary!"

"I hope you don't mind me dropping in." There's a soft confidence to her greeting that's almost contagious.

With a smile and a questioning look, he waves her into his flat.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

"I thought you might quite like to have this." From her hand drops a key card on a lanyard.

A security pass.

It's not been four hours since he left her office, "That was awful fast."

"I _may_ have rushed it through."

As he closes the door behind her, he points out, "You know, as much as I appreciate you stopping by, I don't recall ever telling you where I live."

"Oh Matthew, we at the PM's office have our ways." She pauses dramatically before adding, "Also, you had to put it on the application form and I saw it when I handed it into security."

When he had called into her office earlier in the day as she'd asked, she'd brandished at him the forms for a Downing Street security pass. It wasn't exactly the sort of 'present' he'd been expecting but there was something about the way she'd gone about it that left him far from disappointed.

"_I think you'll be needing it now. You can come and go from Number 10 as you please."_

"_You mean, come and go from _your_ office?"_

"_Now, Matthew, I'm a very practical woman and I'm merely trying to make your life a little easier. If my helpfulness to you also means I can summon you here at any time, or perhaps allow you to greet me in the mornings with coffee as you see fit, then that's just a handy by-product."_

"_Oh, really?"_

Reaching to take the pass from her, he smiles once again, "Ought I to take this as a hint about your desire for a caffeine hit upon your arrival at work tomorrow?"

"I knew you were a fast learner."

He offers her a drink out of courtesy more than anything but finds himself urging her to stay when she wavers.

"It's been a long week." Her words are unavoidably weary and he encourages her to sit on his couch while he searches for a half decent bottle of wine.

When he comes back around, she's sitting carefully on one end, delicately rubbing at tired eyes.

"At least you're used to this sort of thing. I've spent the whole week surrounded by the same insanity and with absolutely no idea what I'm doing."

"If it makes you feel better, you did an admirable job. Everyone I've spoken to on my side of things thinks you're quite the operator."

"They're talking about me?"

"Darling, it's politics. They're _always_ talking about you."

This catches him for a moment and not for the first time, he finds himself wondering what Mary Crawley might have to say about him in the company of others.

With his thoughts elsewhere, Mary takes in their surroundings – his television, muted since he'd heard the door and his glass already filled.

"I hope I haven't interrupted anything."

"Not at all. I was going to watch mindless television and eat some frozen lasagne that my mother made and foisted on me at the start of the week – I'm in my thirties and she thinks I can't fend for myself. I can assure you, I'm not missing out on very much at all."

Something occurs to her and a knowing smile plays on her lips, "...Just how much of that lasagne do you have?"

.

Mary is aware it's a possibly dangerous situation, but she's almost half asleep on Matthew Crawley's couch, three glasses of wine and slightly too much lasagne later, a mixture of far too relaxed and far too exhausted to care. Her heels, long since kicked off are by the couch beside her and her feet are tucked under a cushion for warmth.

Tonight, she's had _fun_.

She's not sure what she expected when she'd made the impulsive decision to catch a taxi out to Matthew's flat. There had still been life buzzing around their office in Number Ten when the security officer she'd sweet talked for a rush job on a pass had come in and dropped it on her desk. It had played on her mind as she'd finished with her work for the day and the idea had finally occurred to her as she'd gone to leave.

It would at least save him a trip in the morning, right?

She'd felt a little nervous when she'd knocked on his door – it had struck her in the moment how it might look that she'd come all this way; or worse, what she might be interrupting. As a woman usually prepared for all eventualities, Mary wasn't used to the uncertainty that came alongside impulsivity.

Her fears had mostly been dispelled when he'd opened his door. Though surprised, a smile had lit up his features and as he'd ushered her inside, a rush of sly confidence had appeared – the same kind she'd perfected after a few too many years in her line of business and a lifetime of Crawley family insanity – and she'd all but invited herself in, and then again to stay for dinner, with an unfamiliar buzz in her veins encouraging her all the while.

She'd learnt his mother was an excellent cook, heard an exasperated fondness in Matthew's voice as he'd spoken of her and offered a little about her own high-powered American CEO Mama who seems now to spend more of her time in New York than in London.

They'd watched mindless television for no reason other than it was there in front of them, eaten too much as they'd made fun of whatever it was they were watching and inched closer on his sofa with every pointless argument about content and quality and moral decline.

And several hours later, she knows it's got to be late.

"I don't think I can _move_."

"I'm not sure I can either."

"It's very improper of me, you know, half asleep on a stranger's couch. My granny would be horrified."

"I wouldn't say I'm a stranger..."

"I did only meet you on Monday. I didn't know where you lived until four hours ago."

"That didn't stop you showing up at my door."

"I suppose that was improper of me as well."

"Perhaps. But that doesn't mean I wasn't glad."

It's sometime around this point in the evening that Mary realises just how close they've come, sitting together on his couch. Her face is turned in towards his and her arm brushes his as they talk.

There's a softness to her voice as she can't help but remark, "It doesn't really feel like just a week."

"No. Not really."

"It _has_ been a particularly historic week."

"I can't disagree with you there."

It all sort of hangs in the air between them for a long moment.

"I should go." Mary gives him a small smile.

"You don't have to. My couch is yours as long as you should want it."

"I should go home and sleep," she laughs softly, "I should show up to work tomorrow wearing different clothes to the ones I wore today. That's about the fastest way to start a rumour in Westminster."

"Well I suppose then I shall let you go, in the hope of protecting your good name."

"Aren't you a gentleman?"

It takes some time to fumble for her shoes and he offers her his arm as she attempts to peel herself from her well established spot on his sofa.

And when she steps over the frame of his door, she turns back for just a moment to place a careful kiss on his cheek, as a sort of farewell.

The door closes behind her and she has to lean against it for just a moment to catch her breath.

.

_**New Cabinet Ministers sworn in**_

_Three new ministers were sworn in by the Queen this morning after the Prime Minister, Charles Carson, announced a reshuffle as a result of Ian Laming's controversial resignation and John Bates' elevation to the cabinet as part of a coalition deal. _

_Bates was the first to take the Oath before the Queen and after the short ceremony to appoint him as the Secretary for Communities and Local Government described the moment as an 'incredible honour'._

_Mr Bates also took the time to acknowledge his Chief of Staff Matthew Crawley, a man believed to have been integral to establishing a deal between Bates and the Carson Government, ensuring Bates' promotion to this new cabinet position. It is not known whether Mr Crawley has any connection to the Crawley family that have played such a big part in Westminster over the last 30 years – the likes of which include former PM Violet Crawley and Member of the House of Lords, Robert Crawley who is also the Conservative Party Chairman. _

_As Communities and Local Government Secretary, John Bates has inherited a number of complicated issues..._

_._

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 13 March 3:27 PM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Her Maj

I actually met the Queen today. The Queen!

Nice lady.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 13 March 3:31 PM

To: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Subject: Re: Her Maj

Isn't she just? I have some very fond memories from my childhood with her & Granny. She's very motherly.

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 13 March 3:37 PM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Her Maj

You just _had_ to play the Violet Crawley card, didn't you? Here I am, just wanting to bask in my tiny moment of royal glory and you lord it over me.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 13 March 3:39 PM

To: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Subject: Re: Her Maj

Oh poor Matthew. I shall remember in future not to remind you how fabulous and well connected I am.

Want to come for dinner tonight? A bunch of us go out for dinner on Tuesdays when the Parliament is sitting. Interesting mix of people, lots of wine consumed.

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 13 March 3:37 PM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Her Maj

I don't think it's something I'll ever need reminded of.

Dinner sounds good. When and where?

.

It's the second time now he's come to one of these dinners and the second time that some guy called Patrick has given him the death stare.

The week before had been a lot of fun; Mary had seemingly been wary of the fact that he was new to the group and had stayed pretty close at his side the whole night. They've developed this sort of ease about them since the night in his flat – they have a comfortable banter and there's a new familiarity to the way they interact. He's fairly certain this much has been obvious to this odd mix of people they now find themselves out to dinner with on another dreary Tuesday night.

He leans into her space in order to getting her attention and she turns her whole body towards him as he asks, "You want another drink?"

She shakes her head, "I'm fairly certain it's my turn. You've done the last couple of rounds."

"Well then, maybe I ought to let _you_ buy _me_ a drink then."

Smiling warmly, she grabs her purse from below the table and heads for the bar, leaving Matthew alone at the table with the man clearly trying to stare a hole through his forehead.

She's only just out of earshot when her friend asks, "So you and Mary, eh?"

"I'm sorry?"

Ignorance, he decides, is the best policy.

"Well, you're going out of your way to let everyone know here that you're shagging her. Someone had to ask."

Matthew responds slowly and carefully, "I think you've maybe gotten the wrong idea."

"So just _friends_ then?"

"I suppose."

"You should be careful with Mary." Patrick's suggestion feels a little more like a threat.

"I think I'll be fine, thanks."

"She'll let you down in the end – you're not the right _type_ for the long term, trust me. She likes to have a bit of fun though, so like I said, you should be careful."

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be her friend, you're awful quick to throw her over."

"It's just a bit of friendly advice."

He decides at this point that he has no desire to continue this conversation and finds Mary at the bar, still waiting to order.

"Don't worry about that drink. I might, ah, call it a night."

"What? But it's so early!"

"Only by your standards; I'm boring and old. Besides, I don't want to ruffle any feathers out with your own little crowd, I'll just duck out quietly."

"Don't be silly. If you want to call it a night, I'll come with you. It'll be no fun otherwise."

He tries to say all the right things and to encourage her to stay with her friends but he has to admit there's part of him that's pleased when she waves them all goodnight, tucking her arm into his as they manoeuvre their way out of the busy restaurant.

And if Patrick Gordon wants to eat his heart out as he watches them go, well so be it.

They're weaving under the overhangs of restaurants, her arm still under his as they try to stay out of the London rain when she primly informs him, "Patrick's a wanker."

He laughs, "What?"

"He said something to you in the restaurant. Whatever it was, you shouldn't listen because he's a class A _wanker_."

"You know, I don't think I've ever heard you use language like that before."

"I use it when it counts."

"I see that. Way to rise to the occasion."

"So, he _did_ say something?"

Matthew sighs, "Of a sort."

"What was it?"

"Nothing worth repeating." But she still seems to be waiting for more of an explanation and he feels obliged to add, "He seems to think you'll chew me up and spit me out."

"Ha!" She throws her head back in her amusement, "Just because Patrick happens to be thoroughly _digestible_ doesn't mean that he ought to warn off everyone that somehow makes him feel threatened."

"That sounds... sort of _wrong_."

Mary laughs, "You know what I mean."

He feels a little inelegant asking, "Is there something going on there? Does he maybe have... feelings?"

"He has feelings for the _idea_ of me – broadly selfish ones I'm sure," she explains evenly, "He likes the notion of The Crawleys and he has grand ideas for himself – that's all."

Matthew tries to take this in, "Right."

"You don't have anything to worry about with Patrick, Matthew."

It seems like a fairly loaded statement and he's not really sure what side of the line he's supposed to be on.

Eventually he settles on a simple, "Okay."

"Good."

He walks her home and she doesn't let go of his arm.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 5 April 8:12 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Military speech

I've attached the speech for Carson's announcement tomorrow. The stuff on military spending is going to get tricky, so as always, your well-honed political eye is appreciated.

And don't think we're not going to talk about what I walked in on last night. Namely what you were doing on your sofa.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 5 April 8:14 AM

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Military speech

I don't know what you're talking about.

And that should teach you to let yourself in.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 5 April 8:18 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Military speech

It's not my fault that you gave me a key.

Or that you and Matthew were CUDDLING on the couch.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 5 April 8:24 AM

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Military speech

We were watching television – it's hardly unusual, we do it all the time.

At best, his arm was along the back of the sofa. That's all you've got.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 5 April 8:26 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Military speech

His arm was along the back of the sofa right behind where you were sitting. And your head was remarkably close to his shoulder.

I can't believe we're almost 30 and we're having this conversation.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 5 April 8:30 AM

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Military speech

Then by all means, let's not have it.

Finally got a dress for the state dinner with the Aussie PM – are you ready for the madness that's about to ensue?

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 5 April 8:35 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Military speech

A whole week at the mercy of a foreign leader? I can't wait.

And don't you think I'm letting this one go – there is something going on and I am going to get to the bottom of it.

.

The week of his first state visit is not one Matthew will easily forget. Even working for Bates, who only had a comparatively small amount to do with the visiting delegation from Australia, Matthew has seen his week dissolve into chaos – an endless stream of event invites, joint announcements and planning for the next media fanfare just waiting to creep up on them.

Most of the excitement has been focussed on a state dinner to be hosted by the Queen and for the second time in almost as many weeks, he finds himself star stuck at Buckingham Palace in the presence of royalty.

And Mary in a seriously gorgeous dress.

He's not too big to admit that the latter is making him just as nervous and as lightheaded as the former.

They've spent a lot of time together these last few weeks and have danced along this line of propriety – they're a little too familiar with the way they interact, he's probably been a little too reckless with his affections but in spite of it all, there is something about her that is still a mystery to him. For as long as he's known her, Mary Crawley has been a master of her emotions and temperament and while he gets the impression that he's been fortunate enough to have seen a little more than she offers to the masses, she's still reserved enough to leave him wondering.

But now he's somewhere so much _bigger_ than he ever dreamed, dining somewhere in the vicinity of some of the world's most powerful people trying to avoid the attentions of the waiters who keep coming around to refill his wine glass because without a doubt, his head is buzzing enough already.

He has to admit that he wasn't exactly looking forward to the dinner before he'd arrived. It had been such a long week of rewriting speeches, of ministerial briefing and trying, still, to get up to speed with the enormous amount of work that comes with being charged with a portfolio. He still doesn't have someone in the new communications director position that he's happy with and he's fairly certain that if he has to ask them one more ill-informed question, the public servants running Bates' department will try to kill him in his sleep.

There was also the matter of a tuxedo.

Having only worked in the complete insanity that happens to be Westminster politics since the start of the year, Matthew had, until this week, not quite understood the importance of owning a tuxedo. When he'd made the mistake of mentioning to Mary three days before that he'd yet to sort one out for the dinner a horrified sort of look had settled on her features and he'd found himself on a painfully long lunch (a staple in their business, he's assured) with she and Anna, trawling the streets on London for a suit.

(_"See? This is why we brought Anna. She is more practical when it comes to the financial side of things."_

"_You mean, she won't try to convince me to spend four thousand pounds on a tuxedo?"_

"_I'll have you know, that was a nice tuxedo!"_

_A snicker, "For James Bond, perhaps."_

"_Shh Anna! You're supposed to be _my _friend! Even you said he looked nice in that one."_

"_Thank you Anna."_

"_Shut up Matthew."_

"_Can we _please_ go back to work now?"_)

Now he's here though, it's been a fantastic night. The whole menu may have been in French, the plates may have been so many hundreds of years old he was afraid just what damage his too-shiny knife might do to them if he leans just a bit too hard and his new tuxedo might make him feel a tad silly, but he's had a good time.

And not just because of a certain woman who looks all kinds of stunning in a lacy black dress and whose eyes keep finding his across the room. She appears almost weighed down by something as she moves from table to table but each time she catches him, something about her seems to lift – eyes brightening, smile widening.

It makes him try that bit harder to seek her out whenever he gets the chance.

It's Anna though, who finds him first. She's been flitting around all night, knowing all the right people to talk to and evidently, saying all the right things. She too looks very elegant in her long black dress and he's seen more than a few heads turned tonight as she's passed by.

"Having fun?" she asks, sliding into a now-vacant seat beside him at his table.

"Of a kind. How much fun can you have when you're scared half to death of damaging the 200 year old sweet plates?"

"Isn't that part of the challenge? Look as classy as you can in positively ridiculous circumstances?"

"You sound like an old pro."

"I had to learn quickly. In this job you've got to be able to keep up, even if you're just a middle class girl from Yorkshire."

Matthew smiles, "Well, we from the middle class should stick together then. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two."

"Anything you need."

She leaves him pretty soon after that, but not without a pointed compliment about his suit. He likes Anna, he decides; she's practical and genuine and so unlike the many 'political' operatives that he's come across since taking the job with Bates. Despite her position and the very people she works for, Anna has kept her head above all the political mess – it's something he can only hope he'll be able to achieve after a few years.

The night rolls on and though the people at his table are nice enough, he can't help the way his eyes dart around the room every so often, looking...

He finds her in the corner, alone for the first time in the evening. When she sees him looking she tips her head in invitation and he makes his way across the room.

"Come on." She takes him by the arm and ushers him out a side door.

"Where are we going?"

"We're escaping."

Matthew can only laugh as she pulls him along, through another door and then into an empty courtyard.

"You know where you're going."

"I've been to more than a few of these things. There so often comes a time when you just need to get some air."

He thinks of the shiny cutlery, the incessant conversation and the way his suit is beginning to feel all tight around the collar and he has to agree, "It can all get to be a little much, yes."

They settle standing close together in the cold, staying huddled near the door where the open space is still covered in by the overhang of the balcony above and Mary begins, "I'm sorry I haven't paid you more attention tonight – with these dinners I always feel like I'm getting pulled in so many directions; so many people wanting so many things."

"I think I'll survive. As much as I enjoy your attentions, I think I can be man enough to understand that you're in demand."

"Urgh," she rubs at her forehead in tired frustration, "I'm only in demand because all these people _want_ something from me; they just want to talk to me because of my family connections or because I work for Carson. It's my job, I know, but it can be very tiring."

"You carry it well."

"Do I? I'm not sure." She takes a long breath, "They all think me some kind of Ice Queen – Mary Crawley who doesn't have a heart; the reporters, the staff around the Parliament, even the party types – they all say it."

"Well then they're idiots. Idiots who are probably just jealous and who don't know you at all."

She takes a moment, her hand reaching out and then balling into a fist. Eventually she sighs and gives him a tight smile, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to weigh you down with it as well. I'm usually much better at dealing with it all."

"I really don't mind."

She plays with the sleeve of his jacket. "You get stuck with all my problems. I've told you about my father and about working for Carson, and yet, I haven't seemed to be able to return the favour."

"You've certainly helped me to find my feet in all this. I couldn't have done it without you."

"That's different." She pulls herself in front of them so they're properly face to face, her hand sliding down to find his, "Don't you have any demons, Matthew?"

This catches him a little by surprise.

"I... I suppose." He swallows, suddenly compelled to offer a little of himself, "I was in the army before I worked for Bates, spent some time in Afghanistan. When you deal with everything that happens over there, you do come home with some demons."

Her grip on his hand tightens, "Oh, Matthew..."

"It's okay. Really." His free hand drifts up towards her cheek. There's an unavoidable crackle of tension between them and he feels like he's not fully in control of his actions as the enormous size of moment takes over him, "I'm a lot better off than some of the people who came back, I count myself lucky."

She leans into his touch and pulls in a shaky breath. "You're so strong, so... _good._ You're too good for me."

"No." He's adamant, "No, if anything it's the other way around."

Because she's _Mary Crawley_ – smart and well-bred and successful and just... _gorgeous._ Inside and out.

And he's pretty sure he's falling for her, harder and faster than he could ever imagine.

She reaches up and he can't do anything at all to stop it. He closes the space between them at the same time her arm reaches up to pull him closer.

They meet in the middle and he loses himself in her kiss.

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

.

She's already having a disaster of a day dealing with the Australian delegation and the state dinner that evening when Patrick appears at her door.

It all goes from bad to worse in two minutes flat.

"What do you want, Patrick?"

"Pamuk's in town."

This catches her attention and her head snaps up, "What?"

"Kemal Pamuk is back in London and he's fishing around for a favour."

"And so my father sent you to make sure I sort it out?" Her words are less than impressed.

"You know Pamuk likes you. And it's... tidier this way."

"You mean Papa doesn't have to get his hands dirty."

He answers with the type of smile she'd like to see wiped right off his face, "I knew you would understand."

"I wish so very much that I didn't."

"But you'll sort it out?"

A little frustration slips into her voice, "Yes Patrick, I'll sort it out."

It wears on her the rest of the day. She has only ever known Kemal Pamuk to be a harbinger of utter disaster; the son of the Turkish Ambassador but more importantly, an enterprising young thing whose business dealings with her father has always been suspect to say the least, he'd taken a liking to her years before and it was an association she'd never quite been able to shake.

It had been a fair while since she'd had anything to do with him, but the whole idea is still enough to make her skin crawl.

It doesn't help that her day has already been a trying one – as she goes about attempting to keep the leaders of _two_ countries on track, the idea of dealing with Pamuk wears at her and an uncomfortable tension begins to twist in her gut.

She's preparing herself to leave, finally escaping the madness for a bit of breathing space and in order to get ready for the evening's dinner when Richard Carlisle takes to rubbing salt in her wounds.

"What did the young Mr Gordon want when he came by? It doesn't have anything to do with all this talk about Kemal Pamuk I keep hearing, would it?"

He associates Patrick with her father.

He associates her father with Pamuk and with his own sick little power trip, so _of course_ he would see that Patrick had been by and _of course_ he would have to prod her uncomfortably about the whole mess.

But as uncomfortable as it may be, she doesn't let it show. Instead she squares off her shoulders, stands tall and confidently closes the gap between them.

Her response drips with an insincere reassurance, "It's nothing you ought to be worried about Richard. While I know you're a champion of accountability here in Number Ten, I can assure you this is just a case of the family catching up with an old friend."

"An old friend?" He's amused and delighted at the suggestion in his own perverse way.

"Oh, I'd say he's a long time friend of the family." It makes her feel a little sick to have to paint it all in such a rosy fashion but she'd rather take that than give Carlisle anything to work with.

"I suppose you, he and your father always did get along so well."

Mary knows better than respond to this and goes to leave. As she turns, Carlisle's arm shoots out to hold her in place.

All of the amusement is lost from his tone, "I don't think you should be getting all high and mighty with me on this one, Mary."

It's pointless to lie, but she can't help but play innocent if only to get at him more. "Perhaps you've misunderstood me."

"No, I think I understand you just fine." His hold on her tightens, "And you need to remember Mary, it's not just _you_ that you're speaking for. I know your father would be most concerned to hear you were causing trouble here."

She wrestles with his grip, pulling her arm back fiercely. Still, he doesn't let go. "I would say _you're _the one trying to start something here." Mary struggles for a moment longer before issuing the low rebuke, almost at a growl, "As much as it may make you feel like a man Richard, you ought to be careful about getting physical whenever you don't get your way; especially with a woman."

"Oh my dear Mary. As if I could forget about your particular _feminine _charms." He pulls her closer still, forcefully, until his body grinds into hers. His free hand glides down her bare arm, an eerily light caress when compared to his still unwavering grasp and a thrill of alarm runs through her, mixing with a dark sickening feeling that has risen in her throat.

Carlisle has always _liked_ her, payed her special attention and just as he has today, he's always taken particular enjoyment in using his power over her father as a way to get to her.

Standing here like this she can _feel_ him – pressed up against her entirely too closely, nothing but the fabric of his overly expensive tailored suit between them, she can feel the disgusting contours of body pressing into her.

He holds her for a moment longer, taking some perverse enjoyment from her powerless position and stunned silence before letting her go as though none of it had happened.

"I'm glad we cleared the air about that," he says smoothly and with a suave confidence, "We could work so _well_ together if you just got past your silly little issues with me Mary."

She watches him go, and for the first time all day, there's no trace of the anxiety that's been burning at her insides. She just feels numb.

.

By the time she's had the chance to put on a fancy dress, plaster on some make up and do... _something_ with her hair (a half up-do thing. Really, it was never going to end all that well) all her anxiety has returned along with a new sort of fury.

How did her life get to be so... complicated?

Her little run in with Carlisle had been a pertinent reminder about exactly how careful she needs to be with Pamuk – his involvement in the whole affair means that he too is a man with far more power over she and her family than she cares to think about and his good favour is only guaranteed so long as she does as her father asks, making sure he's... accommodated.

As she's driven to the dinner she starts to think about exactly the sorts of things Pamuk might want and just how ethically vague it's all going to end up.

The trouble, Mary finds, with being a woman determined to be ready for the next challenge and always prepared for all eventualities is that she spends a lot of time in her own head ironing out the bleakest scenarios.

It's not always a pleasant place.

When she arrives at the dinner, she does a fairly decent job of pretending that there's nothing wearing on her mind and goes about charming all the appropriate people in the room. She can tell almost as soon as Matthew arrives – there's a prick of awareness that comes with someone's eyes watching her carefully and each time she catches him looking from across the room, she can't help but meet his gaze and smile.

He looks at her like she's a good person. Each time it happens she finds herself reassured, if only momentarily.

The whole thing is kind of exhausting; keeping up her smile, trying to bite down on thoughts of Pamuk, her father and Carlisle (hovering by the head table and also keeping a wary eye on her), all the while reassuring every person that asks that yes, her grandmother is doing very well and yes, she'll pass on her regards to her and to her father and her mother and oh yes, Edith happens to be doing very well too.

(Yes, she has _four_ children now. She's very happy.

No, that sort of thing is _not_ something Mary is at all worried about just yet. Children can wait.

Yes, _really_.)

She does well, she thinks, to make is as long as she has but eventually Mary has to admit defeat – if for a short while – and retires to a quiet corner. As a waiter passes by with a tray, she grabs a flute of champagne (the proper stuff, thank god) and downs the drink in a couple of gulps. Sitting the glass on a ledge, she feels that same awareness beginning to burn and looks up to find Matthew's eyes searching for her and when he finds her, she knows it's time she got a little air.

He crosses the floor quickly and smoothly but she doesn't even give him time to stop as he pulls up next to her. "Come on."

She boldly takes his arm and leads him through the halls.

She just needs to get _out_.

"Where are we going?"

"We're _escaping_."

He seems impressed that she knows where she's going – it's an old trick of hers and she lets him know as much. They talk about getting some air and she realises she hasn't really thought about how the enormity of the night might be getting get to him too but he pulls a little at the bowtie around his neck and she has to remind herself that it's his first time at one of these and that he's doing very well all things considered.

Especially seeing as she's been too preoccupied with her own thoughts to offer any kind of moral support.

"I'm sorry I haven't paid you more attention tonight – with these dinners I always feel like I'm getting pulled in so many directions; so many people wanting so many things."

It's a half-hearted sort of excuse but it's the best way she can find to explain it.

Matthew, as always, is gracious and understanding. "I think I'll survive. As much as I enjoy your attentions, I think I can be man enough to understand that you're in demand."

"Urgh."

He doesn't understand, though she doesn't _expect _him to understand, that being in demand the way he's seen tonight is exactly what is weighing her down in this moment.

She tries to explain, "I'm in demand because all these people _want_ something from me; they just want to talk to me because I'm a Crawley and because I work for Carson. It's my job, I know, but it can be very tiring."

"You carry it well."

She wonders if that's true – wonders what it is he and everyone else might have seen as she moved around the room tonight. "Do I? I'm not sure."

It's an honest moment, coming off of a tiring and trying day and the sort of exposed feeling she gets huddled up next to him from the cold that sees her explain, "They all think me some kind of Ice Queen – Mary Crawley who doesn't have a heart; the reporters, the staff around the Parliament, even the party types – they all say it."

"Well then they're idiots. Idiots who are probably just jealous and who don't know you at all."

It ought to make her feel better and she knows he's really trying to help – she attempts at least to hold on to that feeling.

She can't escape, however, that she's relied on Matthew rather a lot lately – unlike anyone else, she gets this feeling she can be honest with him and this isn't the first time she's unloaded some of her troubles onto him. A big part of her knows it's more than he deserves.

Her hand balls into a fist when she thinks better of reaching out to him and she feels compelled to apologise, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to weigh you down with it as well. I'm usually much better at dealing with it all."

"I really don't mind."

But it's not as easy as that, Mary knows; they're a little closer now, enough for her to toy with his sleeve in lieu of any real affection, but she has to make him see, "You get stuck with all my problems. I've told you about my father and about working for Carson, and yet, I haven't seemed to be able to return the favour."

"You've certainly helped me to find my feet in all this. I couldn't have done it without you."

If only that were enough to make them even.

"That's different." He's looking at her in this way... She can't deny that she enjoys the feeling it all gives her. She just wants to make it right, just wants to be equal somehow, or good enough... "Don't you have any demons, Matthew?"

She can't take her eyes off him as he begins, "I... I suppose. I was in the army before I worked for Bates, spent some time in Afghanistan. When you deal with everything that happens over there, you do come home with some demons."

His quiet admission sends fire through her. The significance of the moment is not lost on Mary and her fingers lace through his, "Oh, Matthew..."

"It's okay. Really." She finds herself leaning into his touch as his hand comes up to touch her cheek; she _wants_ this, just to get lost in the moment and forget about everything else. "I'm a lot better off than some of the people who came back, I count myself lucky."

"You're so strong, so... _good._ You're too good for me."

It's the unavoidable truth. Amidst her current drama – which feels so _small_ in comparison to all he's told her now – there's no escaping that he's a much bigger person than she.

"No. No, if anything it's the other way around."

And then, for a moment, she slips. Because she really does care for him no matter how unworthy she may feel, because he's closing that space and her arms are reaching out and because so much of her wants nothing more than to kiss him until she forgets everything that brought her out here with him in the first place.

They meet somewhere in the middle and they are a clash of lips and tongue and careful touches, as her arm settles around his neck, pulling him closer still.

It's so nice, so easy to get lost in the moment they're caught in the middle of and the effortless way they seem to fit together.

She lets it all go on much longer than she should but when he breaks away briefly, breathing heavily and looking a little dazzled, she places her hands on to her chest and takes a measured step backward.

As right at this may feel, it's just... wrong.

She can't do this to him.

"We really shouldn't do this."

It still aches at her to make the suggestion.

A strange mix of horror and surprise is plain on his face, "What? Why?"

"I'm no good for you, Matthew. We can't."

With her heart still pounding in her chest and hands still trembling with the enormity of it all, she doesn't have a more eloquent explanation to give him.

At least, not one that she's willing to burden him with.

Because he doesn't deserve to get stuck with her when she's weighed down by scandal. Because she won't put him in the position of having to carry this weight, having to choose or to lie or _worse_, to break the law...

Because he'll hate her if she should ever tell him the truth.

He tries to brush off her suggestion and reassures her again that it's not how he sees her, but with thoughts of her own disgrace planted firmly in her mind, this time she's not to be swayed.

"I'm sorry Matthew. Really."

Unable to bear it all any longer, she slips back through the door and leaves him in the courtyard, alone.

.

_**State dinner hailed a success**_

_The Prime Minister of Australia wrapped up an official visit last night with a state dinner hosted by the Queen at Buckingham Palace._

_Her British counterpart Charles Carson hailed the evening and the entire visit a great success, remarking that Australia's Prime Minister had been an excellent guest and an outstanding advocate for her country. In his speech to those in attendance at the lavish dinner he remarked upon the two countries' 'close and special relationship' and said that the British Government had much to learn from their Australian relatives._

_A great deal has been discussed during the Prime Minister's visit and at last night's dinner, including trade, defence and Australia's upcoming bid for a seat on the UN Security Council but it is understood that Carson was particularly interested in Australia's well established 'Community Cabinet' program that sees the core ministry hit the road to meet with the general public in a serious of open community forums..._

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.05 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Last Night

Where did you disappear to last night? You didn't say goodbye.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.08 AM

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Last Night

Was exhausted so I left a little early. If I'd come back in to say goodbye I would have gotten stuck talking to someone else so desperately wanting something from me, so I snuck away while I got the chance.

Sorry about that.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.10 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Last Night

So it had nothing to do with Matthew's conspicuous absence then? Bates was looking for him later on.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.13 AM

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Last Night

I spoke to him briefly outside but that's all. I'm afraid I can't tell you where he ended up.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.17 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Last Night

That's funny, because he's already called the Communications Office here twice looking for you. Apparently he can't get a hold of you at your office. Or on your mobile.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 12 April 7.23 AM

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Last Night

Chock a block with meetings – just running to one with Mrs Hughes now. Will return the call when I get a moment.

Really do have to go, I'll call you later on.

.

She hadn't really expected it to be anything other than a trying day.

A very long, very trying day.

Having worked within the Prime Minister's office as long as she has, Mary so often finds herself in the sights of Elsie Hughes. As the Cabinet Secretary and the most powerful public servant in the land, Mrs Hughes is a stern sort of lady and an undoubted stalwart of Downing Street.

She has also never entirely warmed to Mary.

The morning after a grand state dinner, there are more than a few faces around the office looking worse for wear but Mary isn't troubled by a headache or a queasy stomach – instead she's feeling a little out of sorts for other reasons and trying to keep her head down while Mrs Hughes briefs her on the day ahead.

"I understand that someone from Communications will brief the press later to build on the success of yesterday evening?"

The idea of _success_ itches at her a little.

"That's correct. Gwen Dawson has worked out most of the details."

"And is the Prime Minister ready to talk about Syria if it comes up?"

"Unfortunately," Mary nods, adding bleakly, "Things are only getting worse."

With her words perhaps a measure more forlorn than usual, Mrs Hughes gives her a look, "But everything is quite alright? Carson will be prepared?"

"It's fine," she nods and tries to explain away her gloom, "It's just such a troubling situation –everyone is pressing us to do the right thing, yet no one seems to know exactly what 'the right thing' happens to be."

Perhaps it's not just Syria she's worried about.

Mrs Hughes looks at her with her sensible eyes and carefully reassures her, "You know well Miss Crawley that Mr Carson is a good man; he has principles enough to stay loyal to those things that made him Prime Minister to make the right decisions for everyone involved."

The words are good advice in any weather.

"I suppose you're right."

The pair talk for some time longer about various upcoming policy concerns – defence mostly – but it's this suggestion that nags at the back of her mind even after their meeting is over.

When she travels with Carson out to one of his late morning events, eager for the distraction, she crosses paths again with Richard Carlisle. Though she tries to keep well out of his way, he insists on giving her this leering sort of look from across the media pack.

Apparently the day before is still fresh on his mind as well.

Carlisle's smirking look brings right back to her all of the concerns that had been wearing at her at the dinner about he and Pamuk and about all those things that she ought to keep Matthew well away from. To drag him into it would be selfish – he doesn't need to know what it is to be drawn into this scandal and to end up the subject of Carlisle's more... special attentions.

Mary cares for him far too much for that.

With all of it back on her mind, she bites the bullet and calls Mr Pamuk's people on her way back to London, arranging a time to meet the following evening. She's strategic with her choice of venue; a well known and more upmarket than usual Chinese restaurant popular with all the usual Westminster types – fancy enough to seem like she's made an effort but casual and public enough that she can avoid any notions of romance or expectation.

It's time to get the whole matter sorted once and for all so she can get on with the things that actually _matter_.

Just to top off her day, the afternoon brings a meeting at her father's domain – Conservative Campaign HQ – and she finds herself dodging both he and Patrick on the way to her meeting about the upcoming local government elections. Stuck in a two hour utterly miserable talk-fest on what can only be described as impending doom at the polls, she finds herself looking at her phone with increasing regularity and is a little surprised by the disappointment that strikes her when Matthew doesn't call again.

She can't help but worry what he must think.

She's leaving the meeting – if at all possible, feeling even more grim than when she arrived – when she encounters one of the short list of people she's been trying to avoid.

It's just one of those days.

"Mary!"

She turns back to him with a sigh, "What is it, Patrick?"

"Nice to see you too."

She tries to be diplomatic even if her desire to avoid their conversation is plain, "If I'd wanted to exchange pleasantries, I would have come upstairs to your office. I don't mean to be rude but I'm in a bit of a rush."

"Here for the local government crisis meeting then?"

"Unfortunately. It was two hours of being told how much of a disaster we're in for; they're looking at a loss of nearly a thousand seats."

"I saw the internal polls. Makes our little number problem in the Commons look measly in comparison – what's three or four seats when you're haemorrhaging thousands down the food chain?"

"Exactly. It's not going to look good for Carson."

She doesn't like the idea that he'll suffer yet again.

Patrick seems to understand as much and is surprisingly kind when he reassures her, "This isn't on you, Mary, Carson knows how much you do for him."

"And yet here we are – another disaster."

"You'll survive it."

"Will I?" Some of her guilt begins to leak into her words, "I feel like I'm constantly running from one debacle to another these days."

He seems to pick up that something isn't quite right, "Are you sure everything's okay?"

She shakes it off, "Of course. And I do really have to go."

All of it is a timely reminder just how important it is to her to do the right thing by Carson in light of all the things that have been going wrong.

Without looking back to Patrick in any kind of farewell, she marches back to her car.

She knows now what it is she needs to say.

.

"I hoped I'd find you here."

Her heart lurches at the familiar voice from just inside her doorway. Costings for military policy from the Defence Secretary are quickly forgotten.

If she has to be honest, she'll admit that she's been waiting for him to come.

"Matthew."

"You're avoiding my calls."

"And yet still, you show up in my office."

His response is careful but firm, "We need to talk, Mary."

This much she agrees with. Matthew deserves more than she'd left him with the night before.

She's ready now.

"I know." She rises from her office chair and comes around to perch on the front of her desk in an attempt to avoid the dividing feeling of having it placed between them. "I'm sorry about last night."

He seems guarded, "Sorry because you kissed me, or sorry because you ran out on me and then disappeared into the night?"

She doesn't lie, "I'm sorry that I left you there." The rest of his question she avoids. "I didn't explain myself well and you're entitled to much more than that."

Matthew hovers a little closer, "Is that all I'm entitled to?"

"Matthew..."

"Because as much as there may be something else going on here, I wasn't the only one _there_ last night and I wasn't the only one that let things get as far as they did."

There's a determination about him now – she can tell he's thought about this, possibly as much as she has – and he closes the space between them with quiet confidence.

It makes it all that much harder to maintain her resolve.

"If I remember, and I think I do quite well, you kissed me back."

It's a reluctant confession of sorts, "I did."

"So you... wanted to kiss me."

She has to try, "It's not as easy as that."

"Why not?"

Needing just a little more room to think, Mary goes to take a step to one side but Matthew easily anticipates the move and gently holds her in her place.

"You can't avoid this," he tells her on a breath.

And she can't.

She can't avoid the way she responds to him, pulled in close, his hands sliding down her arms.

She can't avoid just how much she wants to be _right here_, with him looking at her the way he is.

"...We shouldn't."

A shy smile, "We should."

His hand skirts up to her cheek and she doesn't (she _can't_) resist as his mouth closes in on hers.

It's just as easy as she remembers. Kissing Matthew. Matthew kissing her.

She whimpers softly as lips and tongue do exquisite things, probing, softly exploring, _dancing_...

She lets it go on for a long moment – it's gentle and sweet and with such a big part of her that is reluctant to make the same mistake she did the night before, running off and leaving him without answers, she doesn't resist as he pulls her closer still.

He lets her step away once they break apart and desperate to get enough space between them she moves back around behind her desk.

She can't.

She still can't.

She makes a concerted effort to temper her breathing – she hates herself for letting this happen again, and worse, for toying with his feelings.

But nothing has changed and her reasons are still reasons. The time that has passed has only given her the chance to work out the best way of setting things right.

"This isn't just about us, Matthew."

"What do you mean?"

Unlike the previous night, she's had the time to think about the whole situation more clearly and she knows what it is she needs to say.

It's the only thing she thinks might be able to keep him away.

She just needs to stop falling into _this_ – the magnetism, this power between them that has so far seen her make some rather dangerous mistakes.

"We just negotiated an incredibly significant agreement between two of the most powerful people in the country. That was me and you – we made that happen – how do you think it looks if we're like... _this_." Her arms motions back and forth between them both.

"It doesn't..."

"It does! It matters! Sometimes in the crush of the hundreds of little things you do every day, all those things you stop thinking about too seriously, you forget that you're running the _country_. You and whoever you work for are making decisions every day that affect an entire nation."

It's the sort of thing she should have said in that courtyard, the very first time she had the chance.

It's the sort of thing she should have even _thought of_ in that moment – it's her job and her life and given the chance now, she has to do the right thing. It's not the whole truth and not her biggest reason – her family's history and all the trouble she can bring upon him still weighing heavy on her mind – but it is the best one she can give him right now.

She can see Matthew falter as her point hits home.

Again she apologises, "I'm sorry I let this get as far as it did... I'm not sure I understood quite where I was allowing it all to lead."

There's a pause as he takes this all in.

And though it's exactly what she'd hoped for when she'd decided to feed him this explanation, it doesn't hurt any less when she sees it taking hold.

"So that's it? We work together like this and we don't have any alternative?"

"I have to think about Carson," she explains flatly.

A blank and mostly unreadable expression is fixed to his features as he replies, "You've always done the right thing by him."

Her lines are well-rehearsed, "It needs to be like this. A great number of people have given a great number of things to be where we are now."

The latest thing, the newest sacrifice that they will both have to make hangs there between them like a lead weight.

"Will it ever be different?"

She wishes she had a better answer for him, "I don't know. It's this parliament – the political environment right now is toxic; the Opposition would give anything right now for this kind of slip."

"I remember... the first time I met you, you told me a hung parliament isn't a kind thing."

"I'm not often wrong."

She leaves this suggestion for him to take however chooses.

"I do care for you Matthew, I hope you know that. I _think_ you know that."

"You're just... doing the right thing?" He's dejected now, quiet and guarded.

"For everyone." With this, she is firm.

Mary can only hope that eventually he'll understand just what it is she means.

After a long moment, both of them reaching and failing to find something to say, he looks to her with a sad smile, "I suppose I should go."

"That would be best."

She stays in her office late that night. She works until the words blur on the screen and her head spins with a dizzy tiredness.

She's made the right decision.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 13 April 9.37 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Everything okay?

You looked like death warmed up this morning at the senior staff meeting – is everything alright?

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 13 April 10.29 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Alive?

You know, when you don't reply to my emails I am left to assume that you have keeled over from some mysterious affliction and are sprawled on the floor of your office in need of help. It makes me want to leave my very important meeting to come round there and check you're still alive.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 13 April 10.30 AM

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Alive?

I'm fine. And by no means sprawled on the floor of my office.

Do not leave your meeting.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 13 April 10.34 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Alive?

That was fast.

It doesn't reassure me that you're all okay though – are you sure you don't want to have dinner tonight to talk about it?

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 13 April 10.46 AM

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Alive?

I'm afraid I can't – I already have dinner plans.

But trust me; I'd rather be spending the time with you.

.

Mary forgets sometimes, amidst what is too often resentment about her situation, that Kemal Pamuk is an entirely charming sort of man and, she has to begrudgingly admit sitting across from him at dinner, not entirely a bad person to spend time with.

He's smart. He keeps up and occasionally, he even challenges her. He is interested in business, up to date with politics and quick to share an eloquent point of view.

Had she been younger or more naive, Mary might have found these things somehow appealing and mistaken an appreciation for his intellect (and, she if she has to make some further concessions, his obvious fortune when it comes to his more _physical_ attributes) for genuine attraction.

It hadn't been a consideration when they'd first met; at the time she'd still been caught up with a different kind of familial drama, struggling with the loss of her sister and too far gone to notice any of Pamuk's particular charms. He'd liked her of course, found something of a challenge in the iron wall of wit she'd used as her defence, and her father had ultimately played this to his advantage.

By the time she knew what was happening, she was bitter enough that his advances had no hope of finding purchase.

Now she is a hardened political operative and in the four years that have passed since her first run in with the Turk she's seen it all. With the wisdom that comes from dealing with the people and the problems she has in this time, she know much better than to see anything _more_ in her dealings with Pamuk.

She also knows a little more about the nature of a _real_ connection.

(But she's not going to think about that now.)

Across the table from her and picking at duck pancakes Pamuk cuts a suave figure, smiling warmly as she reassures him, "I'm sorry that you've had so much trouble. It won't be a problem for me to have a word in Thomas Barrow's ear."

"Ah yes, Mr Barrow, I hear good things."

Shrewd, witty and openly gay, the Mayor of London Thomas Barrow makes for an interesting public figure. Mary has been mostly relieved to learn that Pamuk's little problem had been a planning issue with some new development he was championing in London – not least because it was a little less... shady than her worst case imaginings from the days before but also because she know just the man who'll help her out.

Given the significant role she'd played getting Barrow elected to his position four years before (and the special help she has made sure to give him with his ongoing re-election campaign) he is always willing to go that little bit further whenever Mary Crawley calls.

"He takes a little getting used to but for me, he's always accommodating. I make it a point to keep all the right people on side."

Pamuk's reply is a charming lilt of a compliment, "I certainly got that impression."

Mary stirs her drink with a straw and feels a little underhanded when she says, "Well, I hope then I can count you among my many allies."

He is pleased at the prospect, "Of course!"

It might make her decidedly uncomfortable, but at least her father will be happy.

"If that's sorted then, shall we just enjoy our meal?"

And they do; mostly. Pamuk seems more than a little interested in pursuing her beyond a single business dinner but Mary dances a careful dance – graciously accepting compliments, making a point of being friendly but also keeping a resolved distance.

Warm, polite but inescapably off limits.

They are laughing about Ian Laming when a flutter of action at the front of the restaurant and a familiar form in her periphery grabs her attention.

Someone grabbing their take away and all but storming out the door.

She could be sure she just saw...

_Matthew_.

Without thinking, she rises in her place and rushes for the exit.

This can't look good.

It's all she can think of, the way it must appear for Matthew to find her locked in some exchange with another man over dinner. It doesn't occur to her that she has no place trying to explain herself for such things after the night before and it doesn't occur to her that running out of the restaurant on a fleeting glance and leaving Pamuk without any kind of explanation is far from a proper course of action.

The chill of the night hits her as soon as she steps onto the pavement outside and she searches desperately for any sign of him. Without any luck, she takes off in the direction she thinks most likely but fails to find him on the busy street.

Whoever it was is gone.

She trudges back to the restaurant, a cold knot of anxiety twisting once again in her stomach.

.

Of course.

_Of course_.

Of course he should have expected this.

She'd said all the right things in her office, made it sound like their only option amidst an impossible situation but he can't help but feel bitter that despite everything she'd told him about propriety and avoiding political scandal, she's still quite happy to be publically wined and dined by the son of the Turkish Ambassador.

The well off, well bred son of the Turkish Ambassador.

They were laughing. Cosied up together. Flirting.

He knows he's being irrational.

He can't really help it.

Frustration and anger rise up and a buzz of annoyance simmers just under the surface.

Matthew knows who Kemal Pamuk is only through convenient coincidence. With Bates now responsible for local government, he'd been briefed during the week on a contentious planning issue with diplomatic implications making its way through London's municipal scene and the face had apparently stuck with him long enough for him to make the connection to the man sitting across from Mary at dinner.

He's sure that there are more than a few people who would raise eyebrows at _that_ match up.

He has to wonder why she would take Pamuk to the restaurant she did, in full view of all of Westminster, given its status as a favourite in political circles. He remembers Mary telling him about its legendary status when she'd taken him several weeks before – she'd told stories of eating nothing but takeout from Ellen's for long weeks trying to push controversial legislation through the Parliament, shared stories of Tuesday night staff dinners that had gotten wildly out of hand over the best Chinese in the city and had generally touted it as some centre of all political activity after 6pm whenever the parliamentary circus was in town.

Yes, Mary knew well enough that she'd be seen taking her Turkish friend there.

And though there's that nagging part of him that aware he's overreacting, it almost feels like she's flaunting it all, waving it in his face and the face of everyone else in Westminster who dares to think she's within their reach.

Mary Crawley – descendent of bona fide aristocracy, daughter of a great political dynasty, keeper of the keys to Westminster – is from a different world. The kind of world he and her other lowly admirers should never dream of being part of.

The kind of world that people like Kemal Pamuk fit into quite nicely.

Yes, Matthew knows better now.

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

.

"Do you still need this?" Matthew holds up a book that has taken up the last available space on his sofa.

"Uhh," Lavinia turns to look at it, "No, you can move it if you want."

"Good thing too. It does happen to be my couch." He finally sits, trying not to disrupt too much of the chaos that's going on around him.

"You know I have to finish this paper before next week. I'm almost there." She gives him a sweet sort of smile before turning back to her laptop and the array of books also on the coffee table.

So apparently, he's not getting much love tonight.

"You know, I'd understand if you wanted to head back to your flat for some peace and quiet. Like I said, I'm going to have to get up pretty early tomorrow."

"It's fine." She still doesn't look up from her laptop but asks absently, "Are you looking forward to the trip yet?"

Ah, the trip.

Eight days, five English cities and the whole British Cabinet on a glorified summer road trip.

The whole British Cabinet, that is, and choice members of their staff.

The plans had come out of the Prime Minister's office, with a familiar name signed at the bottom of so many of the memos that had come across his desk – the Deputy Chief of Staff Mary Crawley co-ordinating the government's newest scheme to connect with the public at large through a series of community cabinet meetings and events up and down the country.

The memos are the most he's heard from her these last few months.

Three months since they actually spoke last.

"Not really."

This makes her turn, giving him a questioning kind of look.

"Why not?"

She's asked him before and he's given similar answers, much to her dismay. Matthew has learned very quickly of Lavinia's tendency to romanticise politics.

"Well..."

The part about _why_ he finds hard to answer.

"It's just going to be a lot of work. I'm not going to be able to escape the job or half of the morons from Westminster for a whole week."

It's not just the morons he's worried about though.

"Well I think it'll surprise you. It sounds like fun."

Studying politics all the way to a postgraduate level at university, Lavinia _always_ thinks these sorts of things sound fun.

"Perhaps you're right. You'll be able to see for yourself when you come up to Manchester to visit mother."

"I know, I'm looking forward to it."

"To visiting my mother or to joining the political madness for a couple of days?" He's not sure that either are the sort of thing an ordinary person ought to look forward to.

"Both."

Oh dear.

"Your idea of a good time is somewhat unusual, I'll give you that."

Far from being offended, Lavinia seems to like this idea. She finally turns away from her laptop to sidle closer to him on the couch, "But that's why you love me, right?"

A wry smile, "Something like that."

She adds with a note of confidence, her hand brushing along his arm, "Well, that and because I'm terribly persistent."

"What do you mean?"

It's a throwaway kind of comment, "Oh please, we both know if I hadn't pursued you when you got back from Afghanistan the last time we wouldn't be here now."

He has to admit that much is probably true.

He's known Lavinia since his time in the army – she's the sort of sweet girl who always seemed to come back around between tours overseas; it had never been the ideal environment for a long term relationship and she had been the one to keep things going in between long periods of silence.

When he'd returned for the last time and while he'd been working as a solicitor, he'd seen her on a handful of occasions, mostly out of habit. Given her loyalty – and her unfailing eagerness – it had only seemed fair that he give it a chance.

It hadn't really gone anywhere.

And when he'd gotten his job with Bates (when he'd crossed paths with the rather bewitching Deputy Chief of Staff...) it had seemed the matter was at an end.

"I suppose you're right. And I'm of course extremely grateful that you are and that it's brought us here."

Because she'd called again, one last time, not long after a night at a Chinese restaurant.

Because when she'd called, he'd been reminded of how sweet she was, how _simple_ things always were when it was the two of them, together.

He'd been a little more responsive to her advances after that.

She curls into his side, "You know, I've probably gotten enough done on that paper for tonight..."

"Now that sounds promising." His arm goes out around her and he reaches to turn up the volume on the TV.

Lavinia is from the same kind of world as him, she wants the same things as he does and she's the sort of girl people like his mother would just love him to end up with.

_He's_ the sort of guy someone like Lavinia is supposed to end up with.

Being with her makes sense that way.

This is how it's meant to go.

Everything is just fine.

.

***RUNNING SHEET***

7.30AM – All MPs and staff listed to travel on the bus should congregate in the car park at 30 Millbank (Conservative Campaign Headquarters) 30 minutes prior to departure for final briefing as necessary.

_The Ministers expected to travel by these means include the Secretaries for Foreign Affairs, Justice, the Home Department, Defence, Business, Innovation and Skills, Work and Pensions, Energy and Climate Change, Health, Education, Communities and Local Government, Transport, Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, International Development and Culture, Olympics Media and Sport and ALL SENIOR STAFF. _

8.00AM – Bus departs for Birmingham.

10.30AM – Arrival in Birmingham. Luggage to be dropped at Hyatt Regency Hotel in Birmingham. Check in occur to later – see 7.15PM.

10.45AM – Travel to Birmingham University for individual ministerial meetings.

...

..

.

He's one of the first people at the bus the next morning as MPs and staff alike gather in the car park at CCHQ.

Apparently, despite the best intentions of those charged with organising the trip, there are more than a few people not particularly concerned with showing up on time.

Now, sitting on the bus almost alone, a nervous sort of anticipation about the week ahead has started to make itself known – an unusual mixture of intrigue and dread that has been simmering since the trip was first announced a few months ago.

The idea of taking cabinet meetings into the community had apparently been a product of the disastrous (his words, not theirs) Australian state dinner – it was an initiative that had become a favourite among their visiting friends and something that the Prime Minister's team had seemingly grabbed hold of in hope of engaging the public and finally making a dent in their still-dismal polls.

He doesn't have nearly as much insight into the psyche of the Prime Minister's office as he did briefly, once upon a time, but he knows how much the numbers must be hurting.

Now he's on a bus (a nice bus, he has to concede) to Birmingham full of bleary-eyed cabinet ministers and he's just trying to keep his head down.

It's only eight days.

His laptop, open in front of him, and his phone chime in unison at an incoming email.

.

From: Lavinia Swire

Sent: Thursday, 12 July 7:48AM

To: Crawley, Matthew (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Farewell!

Sorry I didn't get the chance to say goodbye properly this morning.

I hope you enjoy your trip.

- L.

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 12 July 7:50AM

To: Lavinia Swire

Subject: Re: Farewell!

Thanks. Sorry if I disturbed you.

You started looking at trains to Manchester yet?

.

From: Lavinia Swire

Sent: Thursday, 12 July 7:54AM

To: Crawley, Matthew (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Farewell!

I'm looking online now – it looks like my best bet is to catch one of the first trains on Monday and to come with you straight from the station to see your mother that morning. I'll let you know how I go.

Love you.

.

With that, he dips the lid of his laptop. He doesn't reply.

With five minutes before they leave, Matthew fishes around for his headphones figuring he might watch or listen to something to pass the time on the journey. He's in the process of untangling them (how exactly is it possible for them to get knotted so badly just thrown inside a laptop case?) when a familiar voice of someone speaking in low tones as they board the bus sends a jolt of recognition through him.

_Mary_.

"I'm just stepping onto the bus now. Not all of us have the privilege of being chauffeur driven door to door on this blasted trip."

A pause. She's on the phone, apparently.

"I've spent months organising this thing; I'm most certainly allowed to refer to it as _blasted_. And you have Carlisle with you, don't you? It would have been far too many people for me to come with you in the car as well."

Finally, after another silence, she wraps up the call, "I'll be fine Carson. I'll see you there."

It's a little odd, he decides, hearing her voice. Traitorously, his heart rate has picked up and part of him wants to turn and look. With careful discipline he stays in his place.

It's been three months since he's had much to do with Mary Crawley. After that night in the restaurant he'd ignored a handful of calls and emails but when those calls had stopped after just a few days, it seemed the whole matter was at its end.

Just like that.

No longer part of Mary Crawley's world – just as part of him had always thought it ought to be.

By some kind of mutual agreement, they've done their best to avoid awkward run-ins around the Parliament. In the time since, he's seen her only a few times in hallways that saw them turn back the way they came, or in briefings where they'd stake out their respective corners and resolutely keep their heads down.

How easily it had all been undone.

But now she's here and _he's_ here and they're about to spend eight days in what sounds like rather close quarters.

Yeah, here goes nothing.

.

She wraps up her conversation with Carson and her eyes find Anna's further down the spacious cabin of the bus – one she'd had to ensure was nice enough to accommodate the fourteen ministers not lucky enough to be chauffeur driven, along with their senior staff.

With a mixture of smugness and eagerness, Anna is giving her a Look.

Apparently, she's found him.

_Matthew_.

They've talked about this more than Mary could ever care for. She'd spent long enough trying to convince Anna that she had by no means volunteered herself to co-ordinate the trip and the many events along the way as some sort of distraction from supposed heartbreak-induced misery – but all that had gone by the wayside when Anna had made the apparently more interesting realisation that their eight days on the road would be synonymous with eight days in close quarters with Matthew Crawley.

Because much to Mary's frustration, this whole idea of Matthew Crawley is quite the source of intrigue for Anna.

It had been weeks of the same conversation: no, nothing ever happened between them; no, there was no bitter argument; _no_, it wasn't because the sex was terrible and she couldn't look at him anymore.

(What on earth would make Anna think the sex could ever be terrible?)

She's only just escaped all the speculation (comfortable enough refuting Anna's suggestions at every turn with the knowledge her denials were about 80% true. For her at least, those are some pretty good odds) when this newer theory had seen it all begin again.

Standing there on the bus, thinking about the merits of not negotiating with terrorists (be they Downing Street communications directors or not), Mary's not sure what to do with Anna and her presently overactive and over-expressive eyebrows, so rather than continuing down the aisle in order to find somewhere to sit with her, Mary ducks into the first available seat near the door.

Just a few minutes until they leave.

It's been three months since she's had much to do with Matthew Crawley. She'd called a few times after that night not really thinking much for the consequences, until a more sensible part of her had prevailed and she'd decided that in light of all her family dramas, in light of Carlisle and of her loyalty to Carson that it would all work out better if she just gave him the space he seemed to want.

As much as it had ached around the edges, it _was_ what pretty much what she'd invited upon herself when she'd pushed him away.

Besides, it's not in her nature to chase after someone with no apparent interest in being chased.

For the most part, she's been doing just fine.

Regardless, the last three months have been busy ones for Mary. The hurrah leading up to the local government elections had stolen away much of her time through April and May and had provided some mixed results – Barrow had been re-elected, thank goodness, but the stinging loss of more than 800 council seats up and down the country had sent the party scrambling to come up with a way to respond to increasingly dismal polls. This trip – the project that had consumed her almost as soon as the results were in and counted – had been their solution in the end, and amidst media fanfare and a level of pressure that she's more than become accustomed to after two years in office, Mary is just ready to hit the road.

But just because she hasn't stopped for a minute since April (since Pamuk, since _Matthew_) doesn't mean she'll accept any of Anna's ramblings on the topic of her non-existent love life.

Not at all.

As the clock ticks over 8am, she's called again to the front of the bus for a last minute head count (why oh why must the bloody Health Secretary be late for _everything_?) and finally they depart.

So it begins.

.

_**Pollies descend on Birmingham as week-long Community Cabinet tour begins**_

_The most important faces in British politics have arrived in Birmingham ahead of a much anticipated public cabinet meeting to be held at the University of Birmingham tomorrow._

_Speaking with media upon his arrival in the city, Prime Minister Charles Carson said he was excited to begin the eight day tour of engagements that will also see him visit Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds and Newcastle. This five-stop format comes after a trial community forum in outer London two months ago was hailed a success and with each event booked to its 1000-man capacity, there's no doubt the government are hoping for the same response as they travel up and down the country._

_The forums will give those lucky 1000 residents from each city offered a place after an online registration process the chance to ask questions directly of the Prime Minister and the Cabinet about issues affecting their local area. Ministers have also been made available for private 15 minute meetings with community groups and prominent figures looking for a little extra support for local causes..._

_._

Mary shoots the girl behind the hotel's front desk a withering look.

She'd phoned ahead. Three times. She'd confirmed their sizable party would be arriving together that evening after a series of meetings and a briefing in the city and would all be looking to check into their rooms. She'd confirmed the hotel would have the rooms ready for the entire travelling group. She'd called personally, not wanting to risk the game of Chinese whispers that could begin had she left it all to Daisy back in London.

Still, when they'd arrived twenty minutes before, they were reluctantly told that almost half of the required number of rooms were being made up, prompting a meltdown among disgruntled staffers and MPs alike.

Now the hotel staff are scrambling and Mary is fielding frustrated complaints from all sides. She's more than ready for this day of smiling and instructing and knowing everything all of the time to just be over and to shut herself in her room where she doesn't have to talk to anyone, much less be at least half way nice to them all. The frazzled look on the face of the girl behind the hotel's counter suggests that isn't about to happen any time soon.

Just great.

Tapping her foot not-so-subtly, Mary holds out her hand to the too-slow attendant waiting for the hard-fought set of keys to one more room. When they're finally ready, she snatches them with a little more force than strictly necessary and looks down to her list to determine the newest lucky winner of a room key.

_Matthew Crawley_.

Well, it was bound to happen sometime.

"Matthew?"

No response.

"Matthew Crawley?"

She spots him getting to his feet just at the other end of the foyer, looking uncomfortably surprised.

Fixing a careful neutral expression to her face, Mary extends the key in his direction, "Your room is free. I'm sorry about the wait."

"It's not your fault." Though his response is obviously strained, she can tell the sympathy is real.

"I think you're one of the only ones that thinks so."

For a long moment he looks at her awkwardly.

"...Well, thank you."

"You're welcome."

As their exchange seems to reach its natural end, there's this part of her that wants to say... _something_. Just to make it _more_.

Against her better instincts, she adds, "It's good to see you, Matthew."

The way he's looking at her – his awkward, stiff expression – doesn't change and he doesn't seem to know what to do with her attempt at kind words.

They seem to be stuck there, just looking at each other for that bit longer than they really ought to before he breaks into the silence, "I'm seeing someone."

The revelation drops into the space between them, making the already uncomfortable air run colder still.

She's fairly certain her surprised reaction is plain on her face.

Desperately, Mary tries to school her features into something more composed while Matthew, still wildly uncomfortable tries to explain, "I just thought you ought to... know."

When none of it seems to come off the way he had hoped Matthew shoots her a tight smile, a kind of panic there that she can see in his eyes, before his fingers close around the key and he unceremoniously heads for the lift.

So, this is how things are meant to be now.

She lets out a deep breath of weary regret before pulling herself together and turning back to the hotel's front desk. She's almost glad for the bumbling concierge still hovering uselessly when she turns, as she's able to give her a satisfying icy look, sending the poor girl scurrying to find something to look busy and leaving Mary with a little less frustration than when she began.

.

_**Tough questions from Birmingham as the Cabinet comes to town**_

_It was just the first of five forums Britain's cabinet ministers are set to take part in over the next week, but it was clear that the people of Birmingham had no intention of easing them in. _

_At the community cabinet meeting held last night at Birmingham University, tough questions were asked on issues like regulation of the media, defence spending and immigration but 1000-strong crowd in attendance seemed pleased with the answers from ministers who had come prepared._

_Questions to be asked at the event had to be pre-screened but it's clear organisers had no plans to keep the evening light on substance as ministers were grilled about this issues most important to Birmingham locals._

_The first question, from Carol Hickman, a local bank manager, was about Britain's role in the EU and its effect on border control..._

_._

"I told you we did the right thing letting through the tricky questions first up. Carlisle thought I was mad." Mary looks over her paper at Anna who's nibbling away at the only passable breakfast served in their hotel's dining room.

"Mmm?"

Clearly, she hasn't been listening.

"Last night? We're getting good write ups in the paper."

"Oh, I saw when I got the clippings through this morning." Anna goes back to her toast.

Mary measures her up, "Are you sure everything's quite alright?"

"I'm fine."

"If you say so..." Mary looks back at her newspaper, "Carson ought to be pleased. We'll need the boost before we go headlong into Labour territory. It's going to be a long few days."

"We're already _in_ Labour territory and we're going just fine. The big cities are never going to be our best friends – it was you that told me that."

"Yes, well it's only going to get worse."

"I think we can handle it."

"I _hope_ we can handle it."

Anna smiles impishly, "I ought to enjoy this. It's not often the great Mary Crawley lets her nerves show."

"Oh please; I'm _not_ nervous."

"Why not? This trip is your brain child. Our poling numbers are shocking and this is just yet another attempt to get them back on track. If this doesn't come off, we don't know what we're going to do. You care about this and you care about Carson, so I'd say you have a lot to be nervous about."

"Are you _trying_ to make things worse?"

"I'm just enjoying the moment."

"I can see that."

Her smile more like a grin now, Anna continues to the next thing, "I also noticed Lord Crawley is heading up to join us in Manchester tomorrow."

Mary glares at her, "He's coming up for the dinner we're hosting."

"You must be looking forward to it."

"You know Anna, I never took you for someone who relished in being _mean_. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were deflecting."

"Deflecting?" There's an almost-convincing disbelief behind her words.

"Yes. There is something going on with you and no amount of pushing my buttons is going to stop me from finding out what it is."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She watches Anna carefully when she rises from their table and leaves shortly after. It's a part of their friendship, prodding at each other this way, daring to say the sorts of things that no one else could and Mary likes to think they're all the closer for it.

She knows something is going on.

She's officially intrigued.

.

Matthew's not exactly sure how Carson's people would measure these things – what exactly would constitutes a win or a loss, aside from the obvious hold out hope for a miraculous recovery in their opinion polls – but he imagines they'll be happy with how all this is turning out.

There had been a sense of dread heading into Liverpool this morning and further into their Opposition's heartland, but while the crowd at the event tonight has been challenging and probably not as generous as their audience in Birmingham, there's still been a healthy sort of debate that has engaged the bulk of the people in attendance.

He's seen Mary hovering on the fringes and there's something about the way she carries herself, he can tell she's feeling the pressure more than she's willing to admit to anyone who might ask.

He's not exactly sure what it is that gives her away and he doesn't know if anyone else around can see it the same way he does, but all the same it's there.

He tries to put it to the back of his mind.

The set up at their event tonight is quite similar to the one in Birmingham; a holding room had been set up to allow MPs somewhere to wait before proceedings began but now that things are underway, it's mostly being used by staff floating back and forth between watching from the sidelines and the quieter room where there can sit fiddling with phones and tablets. He's watched most of the event sitting in the main hall but now the questions have veered onto a similar track from the night before, he's ducked back into the holding area largely for a change of scenery.

Glancing around for somewhere to sit, he finds a familiar face alone in the corner. He's more than prepared to smile politely and turn when she tips her head in a quiet sort of invitation and with little choice in the matter, he goes to sit at her side.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Anna smiles as he takes his place.

"No, not really. I'd say we've both been rather busy."

"I'm sure that's true."

She seems less sure that this is the reason for his distance; that much Matthew can tell.

"I'm surprised to find you sitting here on your own," he points out, "Aren't you usually the life of these things?"

A small laugh, "Hardly. I'm just watching the news coverage – we're showing live. Someone's got to keep an eye on these things."

She nods to a string of TVs just a few feet to one side; the sound is low but Sky News and a handful of other outlets are indeed showing the proceedings from the next room. Anna says nothing for the various faces from the Downing Street communications team who are glued to the screens, transcribing, underlining things a little too violently on pages of notes and making short, harassed phone calls every couple of minutes.

"How are we fairing?"

"Well enough. The crowd tonight isn't as good as last night."

"That's what I was thinking."

Her attention drifts back in the direction of the television, apparently still keeping an eye on the coverage. She watches none of the fire that seems to have been lit under the other communications staff and as the minutes tick on, a silence lapses between them for longer than ought to be acceptable.

Beginning to feel a little awkward, Matthew goes to leave, "I didn't mean to interrupt you. I'll let you watch in peace."

"Sorry," she turns back to him, apologetic, "It's my fault, I was in another world. You should stay."

Her request is genuine and it occurs to Matthew, not for the first time, just how much he likes Anna.

"Do you promise not to ignore me?"

Anna nods with a playful solemnity, "Of course."

"Then I suppose I can keep you company."

He settles back into his spot beside her and this time, she turns herself away from the television to ask, "So how have you enjoyed your adventures on the road so far?"

"Well enough, but then, it's only been two nights and I haven't been home to see my mother yet."

"Your mother?"

"In Manchester. I could hardly avoid telling her I was coming."

"You're a Manchester boy then?" She seems to like this idea.

"Born and bred."

"You ought to show me around in that case, if you can spare the time," she elbows him gently in the side, "I was going to head out tomorrow afternoon with some of the usual faces from communications to get a bit of fresh air finally and to see a bit of the city. Can't go past a local for a tour guide."

Considering the alternatives he has for the rare free time they've so generously been allocated, Anna's suggestion actually seems like it could be fun.

"Well I'm not doing anything else. I'd be happy to show you a few of my old haunts, if you don't mind getting stuck with me on your time off."

She smiles warmly, "Absolutely not."

The forum wraps up not too long afterward and Anna excuses herself for the obligatory run down with the rest of the PM's team.

And though he doesn't know what any of it actually means, he's rather glad to learn that Anna is not the type of person to bear someone else's grudge.

.

It all sort of happens by accident.

A horrible, multi-phase, accidentally well planned accident.

It starts with Anna trying to be devious:

"You should come out with us this afternoon, we're going to see a bit of Manchester."

"_We_?"

"The communications team. It's just going to be a bit of fun, seeing the sights."

"Well..."

"Oh come on Mary, it'll be a good time."

"I think about it."

"You'll come?"

"I'll _think_ about it."

It gets worse thanks to a hastily made excuse:

"Mary!"

"Patrick. I see you made it safely."

"I drove up with your dad this morning. Aren't you pleased to see me?"

"No."

"Oh c'mon..."

"If you came all this way to see _me_ Patrick, then your trip has been in vain."

"That's not the impression I got a couple of weeks ago, Mare."

"Hardly."

"So you must have a free afternoon then? Did you want to go and get some lunch or something?"

"I'm afraid I already have plans."

"Oh really? What are you doing?"

"I'm going out with Anna and some of the crowd from Number Twelve. They want to see some of the city and she simply won't take no for answer. Sorry."

"So there's a crowd of you going?"

"I suppose. Why?"

"Maybe I should come along. Two birds, one stone."

"I- I don't think it'll really be your thing."

"It'll be fine."

"...You'd need to talk to Anna."

"Alright, I better go find her then, shouldn't I?"

"Oh good lord."

But the crux of it – the grand finale – is when all comes together when they meet in the foyer of their Manchester hotel:

"Oh there he is. Matthew!"

Mary head snaps around to find Anna waving him over.

She speaks in low, urgent tones, "What are you doing?"

Anna's response is much louder and there's a deliberate enthusiasm to her words, "Matthew's showing us around. Did you know he's from Manchester?"

Her response comes through teeth gritted into a smile, "_Matthew_ is showing us around?"

"That's what I said. He offered to take a few of us round last night."

"And you didn't think to _mention_ that much?"

"But then you wouldn't come."

"Exactly!"

"Except you're here now, so we may as well just go with it, right?"

"Mary!" There's another voice calling her from across the open space.

Oh, Jesus _Christ_.

Her head shoots back in the other direction.

Patrick.

This cannot be happening.

"Anna! I was looking for you. Mary said I needed to talk to you about tagging along this afternoon."

She'd said as much four _hours_ ago, not the minute before they were due to leave. This much, she thinks, will have been intentional on Patrick's part.

Mary turns her head and shoots Anna a despairing look.

Suddenly, Anna too seems a little horrified.

"Well, ah, it was just a small group of us going out. I'm sure you have better things to do..."

He smiles, "Not really. Mary made it sound like a good time."

This earns Mary another look.

Trust Patrick to wildly distort her intentions for personal gain.

By this point, Matthew is hovering awkwardly on the fringes of their conversation and a small crowd of Anna's colleagues are gathering – Mary recognises Gwen and Alfie among them.

Desperately, she searches for a way out of what is about to become a complete disaster of an afternoon. Nothing immediately helpful comes to mind.

Always one to make the best of a situation, while Mary grapples Anna seems to brush it all off and plasters a fairly convincing smile to her face. She turns to Matthew, "Oh good, you're here. I'm afraid you've mustered quite the crowd."

"I, uh, I can see that."

"You don't mind if Mary comes, do you?"

He shows off his best deer in the headlights look, "...No."

"Excellent."

Anna marches for the door and there's nothing Mary – or Matthew or any of them assembled there – can do but follow.

.

"That's the Arndale Centre," Matthew points to the left, "For you Gwen; I got the distinct impression you wanted to know where you ought to shop."

"Oh! Can we go in?"

"No!" Anna is firm, "We're seeing the city, not wasting our free time so you can look for lip gloss."

With an impish smile Gwen separates herself from the group and heads for the centre's entrance, leaving Anna to chase after her. The sudden departure of two among their numbers leaves their little crowd oddly unbalanced, Matthew awkwardly hanging back from where Mary and Patrick have stopped.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes – it's not as if she bites.

Making a nuisance of himself as he has done all afternoon, no doubt trying to draw attention to their non-existent 'close relationship', Patrick turns to her, "Surprised you don't want to go in, Mare. You're always up for that sort of thing."

"Stop calling me that." She shoots him a withering glance, "Besides, like Anna said, we're seeing the city, not shopping."

"I always call you that."

"Then by all means, _stop_."

.

They've stopped across the road from a grotty looking pub.

"And on a personal note, because I know you all really want to know, that place right there is the first licensed venue in which I ever got positively shitfaced."

Mary can't help but laugh, and apparently neither can most of their little crowd.

There have been the odd personal moments as they've gone around – stories about hard won victory as they've passed by local sports fields, anecdotes about youthful acts of vandalism – and far from being silly, they've made Matthew's introduction to Manchester all the more interesting.

"I was seventeen and I got unceremoniously thrown out in under an hour. I've never worked up the courage to go back."

"Bit of a pansy eh, Crawley"

It's Anna this time that does the honours, "Shut up Patrick."

.

As they've moved about the city, Mary has largely kept her distance from Matthew. As hard as Anna seems to be trying to bring them together somehow, their unspoken agreement to keep a respectful space between them has, as best as it can in the circumstances, stayed intact.

Now they're out by Manchester Cathedral and the group has broken up a little to explore the grounds. It's the first she's been able to shake Patrick's unwanted attention and she has her wits about her, trying to avoid him creeping up on her while she enjoys her brief reprieve.

It's a pretty cathedral, she's decided, with its gothic architecture and vaulting clock tower. Slowly she walks the perimeter, breathing the air deeply and enjoying the moment to be alone.

She doesn't expect to find him there just standing, looking up at the church with notes of awe.

"It's kind of spectacular, isn't it?"

She almost has to look around to check that Matthew's talking to her.

"It's absolutely spectacular."

"Technically, this place is also the Collegiate Church of Saint Mary." He's still looking at the cathedral, his head never having turned in her direction but a careful smile spreads across his face, "Well, Mary and a couple of other saints thrown in for good measure."

"Well whoever she may be, I can assure you it sounds like we're nothing alike."

"You're no saint?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

"Oh, I don't know."

It's hard to know what to say to this, their every word carrying a weight.

She watches him for a few moments longer.

"You like them, don't you? The churches."

He nods, "It's not a religious thing. I just like the architecture." His hand waves toward the building, "I like their imposing forms. Their peace."

"Do you visit them often?"

"Not really. It's not the sort of thing you can easily drag someone along to, if you know what I mean."

Mary smiles at the thought, "I suppose not."

They stand quietly, shoulder to shoulder looking up at the cathedral for a little longer before he breaks into their silence reluctantly, "We should go. The others must be waiting."

She can't quite avoid the bereft feeling that creeps up on her as he turns without another word.

.

"What the hell is going on with Patrick?" Anna corners her in the line, "Or more to the point, what is going on with _you_ and Patrick? He clearly has some point to prove."

It's true that his behaviour has been a little obvious as they've moved about the city – he's gone out of his way to bring attention to their 'relationship', tried to play on pathetic in jokes and generally hung off her awkwardly, all of which Mary has resisted.

Now the group has made a stop for coffee and it suddenly makes sense to her why Anna insisted they be the ones to go in and get everyone a drink. For once, it has nothing to do with her rather generous streak.

Mary, however, really doesn't want to talk about it. "It's... complicated."

"I gathered as much. You're still going to tell me _why_."

She sighs and grudgingly admits, "I slept with him. Again. More recently."

"What?" Anna is not impressed.

"I know! It was a really stupid idea. But you know what it's like."

"No. I don't."

Mary struggles to explain, "It's been a hard few months and Patrick caught me at a bad time. He was just... there. He's nice to me, he _likes_ me."

"He likes your surname."

"Sometimes that's enough."

Anna looks at her, much more sad than she is frustrated with her. Mary isn't sure how she feels about the pity.

She shrugs it off with some misplaced humour, "Sometimes I think it would help if he wasn't so _attractive_. Like, maybe if he was horribly disfigured or something I wouldn't keep slipping up."

"Mary!" She may sound horrified, but Anna is also laughing at the thought.

"Oh please, you've heard much worse from me. And when it comes to Patrick, I can assure you, it's not going to happen again."

"Does _he_ know that?"`

"I've tried to tell him."

Anna gives her a knowing look, "But then, it's never stuck when you've told him before."

"And therein lies the problem."

They shuffle further up the line and Anna asks, "So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to keep telling him I suppose, and make a point to actually practise what I preach." Mary sighs and adds with a dry humour, "Better still, I'm going to stop indulging in foolish moments of weakness; I ought to know better."

Echoes of Anna's pitying look drift across her face once again, rubbing Mary the wrong way.

"Don't give me that; I'm fine, Anna. You don't need to worry about me and you certainly don't need to play the fairy godmother game when it comes to my love life."

She plays innocent, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Mary raises an eyebrow, "This afternoon? Dragging Matthew and I out together? Don't think I don't know what you were trying to do."

"I will admit to no such thing."

"Well regardless, it's not going to work. Matthew has a girlfriend."

This catches her interest; her carefully cool expression faltering in the face of surprise, "What?"

"Matthew is seeing someone."

"Since when?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Well, how did you know he had a girlfriend?"

"Because he went to great pains to tell me! He made it very clear he had no interest in having anything to do with me."

"I don't think that's true."

"And I do."

Most of the time at least.

The shuffle again towards the counter and their conversation is interrupted when they're served by a chirpy young thing behind the til. Once the order is in, Mary makes her escape darting back to their table before Anna has the chance to bail her up again about Patrick or Matthew or any of the players in her disaster of a love life.

She's had quite enough of it all for one day.

.

"So Carlisle isn't here then?" Though they're sitting next to each other at their table, her father leans closer so he can speak in low tones.

Mary knows well enough why he's asking.

She responds dryly, "No, he went back to Westminster when he remembered that cities other than London all bore and repulse him."

"And Carson doesn't mind?"

To this she smiles, "Do you really need to ask that question?"

Amusement tinges his words, "Perhaps not."

As the midpoint in their trip, a formal dinner had been arranged for their first night in Manchester, inviting the media, local dignitaries and prominent community members to dine alongside the Prime Minister and other major faces of his government.

Politics, Mary finds, involves a lot of obligatory eating alongside people you probably wouldn't otherwise choose to spend time with.

As a Minister without portfolio, Robert Crawley had not been invited on the bulk of the tour but had made the sweeping decision to travel up for the marquee dinner 'just to keep an eye on things'. The fact he'd brought Patrick with him had only added insult to injury.

After another bite of his steak, Robert begins, "I spoke to your mother before I left."

He seems to want to make a point by saying as much.

"Oh? And how is Mama?"

"She's fine. She's talking about coming back to England in a few weeks; that will be nice, won't it?"

She's not convinced, "Of course."

"We'll have to have dinner at the house."

Seated next to Robert, Patrick overhears and true to form, interrupts their conversation, "You're throwing a dinner?"

"I was just discussing the possibility with Mary. Cora's heading back from New York."

"You must be pleased."

"Oh absolutely. Aren't we, Mary?"

"Yes," she and her father exchange a look, "It's been so many months since we've seen her."

"Well you must let me know when she's here – I'd be great to catch up."

Mary can see exactly what Patrick's trying to achieve but still Robert is quick to extend an invitation, "You'll have to come for dinner then, I'm sure Cora would love to see you."

Mission accomplished, apparently.

"That sounds good."

Her father looks between the two of them, "So Patrick tells me you were out exploring the city this afternoon."

"Did he now?"

Patrick is just a little defensive, "Robert asked how I'd spent my afternoon. I was telling him about our tour."

"Yes, it was a nice afternoon. _Matthew_ was a very accommodating host."

She carefully emphasises the name. It's a tricky sort of game to be playing but when it comes to her father and Patrick with their cosy relationship and their shared hopes for her future, she's willing to live a little dangerously.

"Matthew?"

"Crawley. The man working for John Bates; we've talked about him before."

As she'd hoped, Patrick seems to pick up on the familiarity behind her words.

"Ah yes, the long-lost heathen cousin."

"You're well aware, Papa, that Matthew is neither of those things."

Robert starts looking around, "Is he here? I really ought to meet him if people are going to think we're related."

"People don't think we're related."

Patrick's words overlap with her own as he points, "He's just over there."

Mary always forgets that Patrick can be smart when he wants to be. He's knows what he's doing and he knows full well from this afternoon that things with Matthew are not as cosy as she's trying to suggest.

Following Patrick's gesture, Robert turns. Sure enough, Matthew is crossing from the other side of the room back to his table and her father turns to her, "Invite him over to say hello."

"What?"

"Go on!"

Patrick smirks at her.

Oh good lord.

Can't back out now.

She rises from her seat and waves (gracefully as she can) to get his attention. When she catches his eye, he gives her this confused look but she doesn't let her confident expression falter.

Acting as if nothing is out of the ordinary, she doesn't give him much choice but to make his way to their table. He stands behind an empty chair, his hands braced on its high back.

She begins smoothly, "Matthew; this is my father Robert Crawley. He was very eager to meet you."

Matthew nods deferentially, "Lord Crawley."

"Oh please, it's Robert. And do have a seat."

Matthew does a pretty good job of hiding his alarm, Mary decides, and pulls out the chair.

"I was just saying to Mary that we ought to be introduced if everyone's going to go on thinking we're related."

"I suppose it is an easy mistake to make but I can assure you that I've been setting straight all those that ask."

Robert sounds surprised, "You don't like being associated with the Crawley name?"

"Just want to get by on my own merits," Matthew is polite, proper but carefully firm and her father seems impressed.

"Good man," Robert smiles, "You know, I ought to have mother dig a little further into our ancestry – she's the expert for all of that and there might be a distant connection there, you never know."

Matthew seems to be considering this when Patrick breaks into their conversation, "Mary was just raving to Rob here about your outstanding hosting abilities this afternoon, Matthew."

This catches him for a moment and he turns to her, "You were?"

Patrick doesn't give her a chance to speak for herself, "Oh yes, you must know Mary's always been very impressed with you. It was just a shame you barely got to talk to each other as we went around."

It's a carefully crafted stab – that much is clear to three of the four of them all desperately trying to get a measure of each other across the table.

Matthew fumbles and tries to keep his words light, "I couldn't well neglect the others."

"Oh of course – we just haven't seen you very much lately, you sort of dropped off the map for a bit there, it's a shame you didn't get a chance to catch up properly."

He knows exactly what he's doing.

Mary gives him an icy glare.

Apparently finding some cunning of his own, Matthew responds, "There's some time left on this trip yet; I'm sure Mary and I will find our moment, won't we?" She nods awkwardly while Matthew gets to his feet, pushing his chair back in. "It's unfortunate you're headed back to London after this Patrick but I'm sure we'll bump into each other again."

He makes his excuses and leaves.

"What was all that about?" Robert looks between Mary and Patrick.

Also getting up from her chair, Mary's eyes follow Matthew as he moves quickly across the room. She doesn't let him out of her sight as she distractedly tells her father, "Nothing. Nothing at all."

She drops her napkin to the table and starts after Matthew, following him out of the main function room and into a corridor.

"Matthew, slow down!"

He draws to a stop and turns, apparently unaware that she'd been in pursuit until she calls out.

"I'm sorry about that."

He's frustrated, "What was Patrick playing at?"

"The usual. You know what he's like."

"All too well, apparently."

Her apology is genuine, "Well I'm sorry. He was out of line."

"I would've thought that enough time had passed for him to move past any concerns he might have had about me."

Mary explains contritely, "It's not you he's worried about, it's _me_."

"What do you mean?" He seems suspicious.

"It's _my_ feelings that get him concerned."

"What feelings?" Matthew's almost angry now as the question rushes out and he sucks in a lungful of air.

"For him..." A long pause, "For you."

"What does that even _mean_?"

Mary feels a little lost as the force behind his words catches her by surprise, "I- I don't know."

He measures her up for a moment.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

She's left momentarily silenced as his blunt question takes her entirely by surprise.

He glares at her, clearly expecting some response.

"Not anymore."

"Then _when_?"

Now she gets angry, "How is that any of your business?"

"You told me once that there was nothing to worry about with Patrick. You made me believe there was nothing going on. Was that true?"

"Why do you care? That was _months_ ago Matthew."

"So you lied?" He spits the words at her.

"I didn't lie! I had nothing to do with him when we were..." She struggles to find a way to explain, eventually adding regretfully, "When we were the way we were. Back then."

"But before? And after?"

"I'm not going to respond to that."

"Why not?"

"Have you _listened_ to yourself? This is ridiculous." She levels him with a serious look, "You have a _girlfriend_; none of this should matter."

His expression freezes and her words seem to take the wind out of him.

He struggles to compose himself beyond this apparent confusion and after a long moment of silence passes between them he announces, "I have to go."

Not sure what to say, Mary watches him leave.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

.

It's an unusually cold morning for July when Matthew picks Lavinia up at Manchester Piccadilly station first thing Monday. He hovers awkwardly around the platform waiting for her train and the bitter morning chill sees him pull his coat in tighter.

It might have been more bearable, he thinks, if he'd gotten any sleep the night before.

The train arrives late, as he ought to have expected but Lavinia seems pleased to see him. She reaches up to kiss him on the cheek when she emerges onto the platform but not even this is enough to shake the numb sort of feeling that has fallen over him.

With one eye on the time, he steers her in the direction of the Metrolink and they travel to his mother's house together.

He feels the chill beginning to ease when his mother greets them at the door, "Come in, come in. It's so very nice to see you Lavinia."

A nurse at Manchester Royal Infirmary, Isobel Crawley had been on shift much of day before leaving Matthew unable to visit her with his free afternoon. When Bates had heard he was about to miss the chance to see his dear mother despite travelling all the way back to his hometown, he'd all but demanded that Matthew take a morning away from their engagements so he could stop in.

She sits them in her front room with cups of tea and biscuits, inspecting every inch of Matthew (he's in good health, he assures her) and fussing over Lavinia.

"Will you be travelling with Matthew for the rest of his trip?" she asks part way through the morning.

"Unfortunately not," Lavinia seems genuinely regretful, "I have coursework to see to back in London and Matthew's going to be terribly busy. I'll leave from Leeds after tomorrow."

"I thought she might like to come up and visit you, maybe get the chance to see a little of what I do," Matthew explains.

It all had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

When Lavinia excuses herself to the restroom, his mother pounces, "You should know how glad I am to see you and Lavinia back together."

Matthew is evasive, "I don't know if you could say _back together_; we've never been serious enough for that before now."

"Well you introduced her to me all those years ago. Do you make a habit of introducing girls to your mother that you're not actually serious about?"

Sometimes, Isobel is slightly too switched on for her own good.

"I was in the army, mother. It wasn't that easy."

"You're not in the army anymore."

He sighs, "And?"

"You ought to be thinking about the future now."

He shrugs, "I _am_ thinking about the future. I'm thinking about an election in three years, about polling numbers for the party and changes to local government policy."

"That's not the future, that's your occupation," she dismisses his suggestion out of hand.

"Mother..."

"Lavinia is such a nice girl, Matthew."

"I know she is."

With a smile, "Are you going to do anything about it? Anything more permanent?"

He wants to groan, "We both have a lot of other things to think about right now; Lavinia still has to finish her degree and I'm only just getting to grips with things in Westminster. It's hardly a good time for all of that."

"But when is a good time? If Afghanistan taught you anything dear-"

He interrupts her with a genuine plea, "Please mother, let's leave the war out of this, shall we?"

Isobel seems to take something from the inflection in his words, "Is there something else? Is there some other reason that you don't want to think about settling down?"

How he hates it when his mother cuts right to the heart of things.

"...No."

"I know you much better than you give me credit for Matthew and I don't-"

She's cut off when Lavinia returns to the room and takes an awkward sip of her tea to cover her abrupt silence. Luckily, Lavinia doesn't seem to be aware of what she's interrupted or of the tension now simmering between Matthew and his mother that has him wound more tightly than before.

The rest of the morning is pleasant enough – they chatter about work and Isobel's plans to come to London in a few months and it's not long before Matthew is looking at his watch and making moves to head back to the grind, the build up to another forum that evening to think about.

Isobel bales him up in her hallway just as he goes to leave.

"It's been so good to see you. Both of you."

"I'll try to visit again soon," he smiles.

"All of that business before, Matthew – I just want you to be _happy_."

"I know."

"Whatever that may involve."

His mother gives him a significant look.

"Okay..."

"You have a terrible habit of doing things for reasons other than it being what you want. Just don't lose yourself in it all." She pats him on the arm affectionately and sends him back, coats now in hand, to Lavinia waiting by the door.

He's not sure why it occurs to him, but as they file out of his mother's front door, he composes a quick email on his phone.

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Monday, 16 July 11:41 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: What's worse

You know what's worse than eight nights on the road with your boss while surrounded with sleazy Westminster types?

_Parents_.

.

At the last minute, he thinks better of sending it.

.

_**Reports of rift as Manchester meeting is best yet**_

_Making its third stop in five days, Britain's Cabinet showed that practise does make perfect when their community forum held in Manchester last night was declared by most to be the best yet. The success however came marred by rumours of a rift between the Prime Minister, Charles Carson, and his Chief of Staff Richard Carlisle who was notably absent from proceedings..._

_._

It was supposed to be a moment to breathe – _finally_ – after what had already been a rather tiring few days. With Carlisle back in London, Mary had been rather looking forward to the trip to Leeds with Carson, instead of on the bus with fourteen high maintenance MPs and most of their hapless staff all seeming to want something from her.

It becomes clear very quickly that the reprieve she's hoping for is just not going to be an option.

It all starts with a text message from Patrick, already back at work in London.

_Not hearing good things about the defence approps vote coming up week after next. Rumours going round HQ that some of our own will vote against. Will keep you updated – P. _

She ought to have expected it, given how often they'd been asked about military spending at the last few stops. The prospect of the government having to substantially increase the defence budget has been hovering over them for months – they'd been dragged over the coals by an independent report several months back suggesting that troops overseas were under-supported, under resourced and desperately in need of better funding but in the face of sweeping austerity cuts and growing resentment about a ten year war in the Middle East, it had quickly become a contentious issue with loud voices making noise on both sides.

It's exactly what they _don't_ need.

She corners Anna as soon as they make it to Leeds.

"Patrick texted. Apparently there's talk of us losing the vote on defence spending in a couple of weeks."

"I've heard," Anna gives her a grim look, "There's a few stories already online – they don't have anything concrete but it means someone's talking. I've got Gwen chatting with the usual friendly journos to see if we can work out who."

"I imagine that ruddy Lib Dem Charlie Grigg will have something to do with it – he always did wear his bleeding heart on his sleeve. I'm just worried that it's not going to stop there."

"Should we put out a statement or something?"

"Not yet. There's hope yet that Strallan back home can do his job and pull them into line – Carson called him from the car. If we say anything this early we'll just give weight to all the rumours, hopefully we can put paid to it all before it turns into anything more serious," Mary shrugs it off with a confident smile.

"Well I'll keep you updated with Gwen's progress."

"Thanks."

She's just about to turn and leave when Anna pulls her in and begins more quietly, "Matthew's girlfriend – Lavinia – she was on the bus up here with us this morning."

"What?"

"She came up to Manchester so they could go see his mother together. Apparently she's right into politics and wanted to tag along for another day or so."

Mary eyes her off, "How do you know this?"

"He ran it past Bates when she wanted to come along."

"That still doesn't exactly explain how _you_ know."

Anna shrugs awkwardly, "Bates mentioned it. You weren't on the bus this morning so everyone seemed to think that _I _was the one to come to with all of their problems."

She smiles, "I'm sure you enjoyed that."

"Not in the least. But I just thought you might want the heads up about Matthew."

"Despite what you may think, it doesn't concern me one way or the other."

It's Anna's turn to look her over suspiciously, "Of course it doesn't."

She's glad when her phone rings and she doesn't have to respond directly.

"Hello?"

It's Patrick.

"This defence thing Mary; I think we're in deep shit."

.

_**Further blow for Carson as scores of MPs are set to cross the floor**_

_The leadership of Prime Minister Charles Carson has been dealt yet another blow by reports today that up to 30 MPs are set to cross the floor in the coming weeks when the Parliament debates a bill to increase defence spending._

_Tensions have been brewing on this issue since April when a scathing report was released highlighting critical under-resourcing in the military and claiming that the government would have to spend billions in order to fully ensure the safety of our troops posted overseas. Charles Carson was quick to respond to the report, pledging in April that the government would 'do what it takes' to address funding shortfalls and recommitting Britain to the role it has to play in Afghanistan._

_The view has not necessarily been a popular one. With support for the war in Afghanistan wavering, many in the community have suggested that extra money would be better spent in the areas of health, infrastructure or social security – all of which are feeling the strain of austerity cuts unleashed since Carson's coalition government took power in 2010. Multiple MPs from coalition partner the Liberal Democrats, including the high profile Charlie Grigg, have voice some sympathy for this view and it is now believed that they are seriously considering voting down these new laws to be considered in the House of Commons next week._

_Sources in Westminster have reported that Coalition's Chief Whip Anthony Strallan has been frantically telephoning his colleagues in an attempt to silence detractors and to shore up support for the government's bill. It's not known how much success he has had winning over some 30 MPs said be considering siding with Labour for the first time under Carson's rule._

_The Prime Minister and his team have refused to abandon their engagements for the day and have continued on the trail of their 'Community Cabinet' tour. Cabinet Ministers are in Leeds where they're expected to..._

_._

His phone has not stopped ringing.

It's total chaos.

In his time in politics, Matthew has never seen anything quite like this. The prospect of an exodus of MPs across the floor has been like blood in the water for the media's sharks and every outlet in town seems to want a comment from Bates about the possibility of losing the vote.

On instruction from a number of sternly worded memos, all hand delivered by frantic runners as they go about the day's event as though nothing is out of the ordinary, he and Bates have declined to comment at every turn. As a war-wounded former soldier, the press have been particularly interested in Bates' response and Matthew is finding it increasingly hard to duck and weave around their carefully crafted ploys for information.

Lavinia, unsurprisingly, had seemed to find the whole thing rather exciting when news had first broken that morning. In the back of his mind, Matthew realises that he's barely had the chance to speak to her since they arrived in Leeds and so began the fray of events, phone calls and briefings.

Shadowing him from a distance, she appears happy enough.

He makes a mental note to apologise later.

It's sometime late in the morning when he finally crosses paths with a very harassed looking Mary, wrapping up what he gathers is a rather heated phone call. He has to grit his teeth in order to get past the awkwardness of their whole situation – their fight two nights before was hardly his finest performance – and he begs a moment of her time.

"I don't mean to bother you."

She gives him an undecipherable look and asks sounding a little harried, "What do you need Matthew?"

"The media is playing the war vet card."

"With Bates?"

"Yeah. They keep trying to play to his disability – they're doing some pretty tricky stuff to try to get him to comment on the story."

"I suppose I should have thought of that," Mary rubs at her temples.

"Not really, it's fine."

She smiles tiredly, "You've done well to hold them off this long."

A shrug, "I'm just doing as I'm told."

"I'll talk to Anna; between the lot of us we'll work out something that Bates can say to them. He deserves the chance to respond if that's what he wants to do."

Matthew nods, "I appreciate that."

Neither of them quite knows what they should say next and they hover there a little longer.

She's an impressive figure, Matthew has to admit. In amongst the insanity that has been their morning, most MPs and staff alike have been frantic while Mary has been the picture of calm. There's something about her that projects authority – whether or not someone in her position would traditionally manage a crisis like this doesn't matter, it's an unspoken agreement among everyone buzzing around that Mary knows what she's doing and is unmistakably in charge while they ride out the storm.

With everything else put to the side, he's just... impressed.

When he goes to leave, with nothing he feels he can say to her coming to mind, he notices Lavinia still hovering on the edge of the room, watching him with her usual interest.

Giving Mary an awkward nod, he goes back to his work.

He really must apologise to Lavinia later.

.

Her phone rings and Mary smiles at the name that appears on the screen.

Violet Crawley.

"Hello?"

She's straight to business, "There's trouble on your backbench."

"Yes, hello to you too, Granny. I can assure you I know all about the problems with the defence appropriations bill."

"You do, do you?" Violet is almost amused, "So you're aware it's not Charles Grigg leading the charge then?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Mr Grigg may be a boor of a thing but he's not nearly sharp enough to have orchestrated such a large scale assault – heavens, the man can barely dial a telephone, never mind call several journalists on the sly in order to undermine a major piece of government policy."

"Then who is it I should be worried about?"

She announces the name with a trademark Violet Crawley contempt, "Sarah O'Brien."

"But she's a Tory! She's one of ours." Mary feels the familiar twist of frustration rise within her, "How do you know it's O'Brien?"

"I'm not completely without my uses, Mary," her grandmother reminds her sternly. "Some of your party colleagues might be holding out hope yet that I'll be sent to some country house to rot where I'll keep my mouth shut and stay out of their way, but they'll be disappointed to hear that I still have an ear to the ground and have no plans to go anywhere any time soon."

"I know Granny, and you're aware how staunchly I defend you to anyone who dares underestimate your abilities."

Though she may be hard work, Mary is well aware of her grandmother's uses.

Violet sniffs, "So you should."

"You're sure it's Sarah O'Brien?"

"Oh yes, I have it on good authority."

It's an unavoidable conclusion, "Then this isn't actually about defence."

"It's not?" This time it's Violet's turn to sound surprised.

Suddenly, it all makes sense.

"She's after three million to upgrade a motorway through her constituency – we had to tell her we didn't have the money."

"So now she's rallying the troops behind an issue she knows already has purchase so she can hold you to ransom and get what she wants," her grandmother follows on quickly.

Mary would be impressed with how clever the plan was if it wasn't making her life a nightmare.

"Exactly. It doesn't help that we're throwing close to billions into this defence plan given we fobbed her off just weeks ago over a few mil."

Violet speaks with seasoned authority, "I imagine not."

"Look Granny, I have to go. I need to track down Sarah O'Brien and offer her a large sum of money."

"Such good luck dear."

She hangs up the phone.

As soon as the call ends, her screen lights up with messages. Four missed calls, just in the time she'd been speaking with her grandmother. Good lord.

Letting out a tired sigh, Mary finds herself again wondering over her decision to leave Daisy her assistant in London, now desperately in need of a little more support.

"Is everything alright?" a prim little voice from across the room asks.

She turns and is surprised with who she finds. "You're Lavinia, aren't you?"

"Yes," she nods eagerly, "I'm here with Matthew. I was supposed to be shadowing him for a bit of experience but things today have been so crazy..."

"Well for what it's worth, I'm sorry. This can't have been what you'd hoped for from your introduction to politics."

"It's fine," Lavinia shrugs it off, "It's just nice to be a part of something like this."

Her genuine interest is clear, reminding Mary of a time long ago when she found the lofty heights of power similarly exciting. How quickly things change.

Taking in Lavinia's eager eyes and her seemingly very polite manner, an idea occurs to her.

"You came looking for a bit more political experience, right?"

"Yes," she's enthusiastic.

"How do you feel about giving me a hand? It's hardly glamorous but I need someone to play my assistant for the day."

Lavinia's eyes light up, "Anything you need."

Mary thrusts her phone into her hand, desperate to be rid of it before it goes off again. "Take this, answer it when it rings."

"What should I say?"

"Tell whoever it is I'm not available and take a name and number – I'll swipe another phone from somewhere around here and call back the ones that matter. If it's Carson or Sarah O'Brien, put them on to me."

At the mention of the Prime Minister, Lavinia falters.

Mary smiles warmly, "Don't worry about Carson, he's a gentle giant."

Lavinia squares her shoulders and seems to muster some confidence, "Okay."

Together, they get to work.

.

_**Talk of internal revolt hosed down as Tories support their leader**_

_Though speculation was rampant earlier in the day that a number of Coalition MPs were set to defy Prime Minister Charles Carson over defence spending, public statements from a number of prominent figures within the government appearing to support the bill have put paid to the idea that they might cross the floor and vote down any increases to defence spending..._

_._

She gets back to the hotel room later than he does and Matthew is contemplating readying for bed when he finally hears the sound of a key card in their hotel room door.

"You're awful late," he points out as Lavinia makes her way into their room.

"Sorry, I should have sent you a message – I was just _so_ busy."

He can only smile at her apparent delight, "Where were you? I barely even saw you at the forum."

"I was working with Mary. Her assistant is still in London and she needed the help."

"Mary? Mary _Crawley_?"

"The very same." As an afterthought, she adds, "You're not related or anything, are you?"

The whole idea has taken him by an uncomfortable sort of surprise and he stumbles over his response, "Ah- No. No, we're not."

"Shame," Lavinia seems a touch disappointed, "She's amazing; having someone like that in the family would be pretty exciting."

It seems odd to Matthew hearing Lavinia speaking of Mary this way and a strange sort of uneasiness claws at the back of his throat. "What do you mean?"

"You should have seen her today. She worked out it was O'Brien behind the all stories going around and she shut it down completely. It was fascinating to watch."

"Sarah O'Brien?" It's the first he's heard of any of it, "That's why it all went quiet later in the day?"

Lavinia nods, "It wasn't even about defence – O'Brien just knew there was enough animosity over the spending issue that she could rile things up and use it as leverage to get some extra funding out of Carson. Mary smoothed things over with her on the basis that she make the problems with vote in a few weeks go away."

"Christ. That's pretty messy."

She's undeterred, "It's completely intriguing, the way it all works."

"I'm not sure that's how most people would put it."

Both spent from an eventful day, they turn in not long after. After a quick peck to her forehead, Lavinia turns to lie facing the wall and her breathing evens out in sleep remarkably quickly for someone so wired not long before.

Struggling to drown out the thoughts turning over in his mind, Matthew stares at the ceiling.

He can't avoid the feeling that it's going to be a while before sleep comes.

.

He seeks her out at breakfast in the morning lingering longer at his table than is strictly necessary, holding out for that moment that Mary Crawley might appear.

The moment never does eventuate.

Playing with dry and spongy pieces of fruit salad from the breakfast buffet with a fork, he's just about to give up and actually get on with his day when Anna catches his eye.

"You waiting for Mary?"

He's not really surprised, "Am I that obvious?"

"You've been hanging around, watching the door all morning. She's the only one that's not come through it."

"I suppose I should take a hint then," Matthew shrugs.

Seeming a little sorry for him, she offers kindly, "She wasn't feeling great and she decided not to come down."

"Well that's just my luck." Dropping his fork back to his plate, he goes to leave.

"Was there something in particular that you needed?" She's looking over him carefully.

"...No. Not really."

"That's good," Her words seem careful and he can tell she's trying to get a read of him, "Because she was worried last night that you might misconstrue her working with Lavinia."

He responds flatly, "Was she?"

Anna shoots him a look that conceals just the right amount of warning, "It's silly, isn't it? I told her it was silly."

"Well... what would it mean if it wasn't? What if I was... bothered?" Something about the whole situation sees Matthew prod at the matter uncomfortably.

"Well to some, that kind of attitude would be ridiculous." She ignores his offended look and continues on, "She genuinely needed the help Matthew – you saw the kind of pressure she was under. It was an amazing opportunity for Lavinia, she got access and experience she could have only dreamed of coming up here which is more than she got from you, ignoring her in the corner. Mary said she was _good_."

He struggles a little to find the right way to explain himself. "...I just want to be sure she's doing it for the right reasons."

Anna clips him swiftly across the shoulder, in a gesture he would expect from young siblings and not senior political operatives, "You clout!"

"Ouch!"

"Not everything's about you, Crawley." On the back of her barb, she steals a piece of fruit from his plate and as he rubs at his arm a little sullenly, she continues, "She wasn't doing it to cosy up or to try and get to you somehow. That's really not Mary's style."

Matthew considers this, "I suppose you're right."

"So you'll admit you're being ridiculous."

He still has some pride, "Well I wouldn't say _ridiculous_..."

"I would; especially seeing as your darling par amour is off working with Mary already this morning. They both seem quite pleased with the arrangement."

Flashing him a smug smile and clearly enjoying the last word, Anna goes to leave. At the last minute he stops her, "What does it mean to _you_?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You said that _to_ _some_, my attitude would be ridiculous. What about to _you_?"

Anna gives him a knowing look, "I think it means that you and Mary need to sort out the fact that you're actually both a little bit crazy about each other and that it keeps getting you into trouble."

She gives the back of his head another smack and this time, Matthew does nothing to stop her escape.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Thursday, 19 July 7:03 AM

To: (Undisclosed Recipients)

Subject: Queries on final day

Hi all,

If you have any issues today with your meetings or with the final community event this evening, please refer them to Anna Smith who has graciously offered to stand in for me for the foreseeable future.

Due to an unfortunate bout of that horrid sick thing going around, I'll be unreachable for the duration of our time in Newcastle.

Kind regards,

Mary.

Mary Crawley  
Deputy Chief of Staff  
Office of the Prime Minister

.

Feeling a little nervous, he knocks on the door.

Predictably, there's no response.

Matthew knocks again.

"What is it?" Mary's voice on the other side is unimpressed.

"It's Matthew, let me in."

Her voice gets louder, as though she's approaching the door from the other side, "If you need something go speak to Anna. Didn't you get my email? I'm not well."

"I got the email – that's why I'm here. Now, let me in."

There's a long moment of silence and Matthew feels an odd sort of anxiousness rise within him. He hadn't really thought much before showing up at her door but now she seems to be wary about seeing him, he's aware of just how much potential his plan has to backfire.

After a few seconds of stillness however, he hears the lock turn and the door is pulled back to reveal and exhausted looking and slightly green-tinged Mary.

"I know," she says miserably, "I look terrible."

Matthew can't quite bring himself to agree. In sickness, she's a little more vulnerable than usual – her tough exterior softened somewhat – and it leaves him sort of... dazzled.

He assures her, "Not at all."

Still holding the door in front of her, Mary explains, "Look – I really am pretty ill; I'll be fine if you just leave me to soldier on for the last day. I can't face travelling back to London just yet so I'm just going to hang out at the hotel for today and head back with the rest of you all first thing tomorrow. You've seen me, I'm alive, now you can get on with your day."

"That's not why I ca-"

He's interrupted when she abruptly lets go of the door and runs back into her room. Staring at the open door for a couple of seconds, he pushes it out of his way and follows her into the bathroom in time to catch her being violently sick.

"Christ."

She doesn't look up, "You really don't need to see this."

He gets to his knees on the floor, "I'm staying."

"What? Why?"

"I'm not very well leaving you on your own when you're like this." He leans over to the sink and fills her a glass of water.

"But you have to work."

"I'll call Bates and tell him he'll have to fend for himself today. Unlike some MPs, he is actually capable of managing his own affairs for a short while."

"How refreshing," At the thought, Mary finally offers him a small smile. She then adds, "I don't want to get you into trouble with your boss or anything like that."

"It'll be fine," he assures her confidently.

"It's a shame Lavinia's not here anymore, she's been really helpful the last couple of days. She probably could have stepped in for one or other of us and saved us all this bother."

Mary doesn't seem to think much of bringing up Lavinia or the last few days and Matthew tries to appear equally nonchalant.

He's not sure how well it comes off.

"Yeah, she headed back to London last night. She has some big meeting today at university."

"She mentioned." Pushing herself away from the toilet and wiping her forehead, Mary adds, "She's a nice girl. I can see why she'd be a good girlfriend."

"Um, yes. She's... great."

Pushing the issue to one side, he gets to his feet and extends a hand so that he might help her to her feet. "Come on – I'll put you to bed for a bit and go out to get some supplies. My mother _is_ a nurse, so you have no choice but to submit to my top notch care."

"No choice you say?"

"None at all."

.

He returns later with Lucozade and some dry crackers which he assures her that he'll force upon her if she resists.

"Force them upon me _how_?" Her flirty smile is enough to send his heart rate up a little.

"I have my ways."

"Now, now – remember I'm not a well woman Mr Crawley, I'm not up for anything strenuous."

Matthew can't help but laugh.

He settles himself on the end of the bed while she eyes him carefully and tells him, "I'm not used to this anymore, you know."

"Used to what?"

"You being nice to me."

This catches him and sends a jolt of discomfort creeping through him.

Sighing deeply, he focuses mostly on the hideous hotel duvet cover as he explains, "I know. It's not been my best couple of weeks."

"I wouldn't like it if you were angry with me, Matthew," Mary offers carefully.

"I'm not. I shouldn't have shouted at you that day in Manchester."

"Then why did you?"

She's not afraid of asking the hard questions, apparently.

Matthew struggles, "I suppose... I suppose I was jealous."

"Jealous?"

"With what you were saying about Patrick."

"Patrick?"

"Among others."

He doesn't mention Pamuk by name and Mary takes some time to think on the remark, clearly trying to decipher his meaning. Whether it's a lucky escape or not, they're abruptly interrupted when she lunges out of bed and races again for the bathroom. Jumping to his feet he follows dutifully and gathers her hair together at the base of her neck while heaves rip through her slight form.

When she's spent and after she's taken a few gulps of water, she looks up at him from her spot on the floor, "Patrick is... complicated. More complicated than it ought to be – but that's my own fault."

"What do you mean?"

"I've known him almost all my life. We grew up together, we were always lumped together by our families," she explains evenly. "Later on at school we were _that _pair – we went out on and off for... well, _years_ really but only ever because that's just what was _supposed_ to happen. We never really worked in practise but our families were close and everyone had their expectations."

Matthew can picture it vividly – a younger, less hardened Mary, trying to keep the likes of her father happy and stuck with someone far less challenging, far less stimulating than she deserves.

It makes sense.

"What about the two of you now?"

Mary shrugs wearily, "I suppose it's not really changed – we've just gotten older; we make adult mistakes now instead of teenage ones. We see each other from time to time because it's a habit and it's comfortable but it doesn't ever mean as much as some people wish it would."

He asks slowly, "Does Patrick wish it meant more?"

"Perhaps. I know he cares for me more than I care for him. I feel terrible after every time I let things go too far."

Matthew's question is as kind as he can muster, "Does it ever occur to you not to let anything happen if just makes the situation harder each time?"

"Of course it has," she replies tiredly, "But my circumstances aren't the easiest. Work, family... _life_, it all gets to be pretty exhausting. Like the best of people, I make bad decisions sometimes."

She looks small, still sitting there on the floor and he does actually understand what she means.

"Well so do I apparently – I'm sorry for flying off the handle."

It's a small weight of his shoulders when she plays with a smile and finally replies, "I accept your apology."

"We're friends?"

She eyes him off slyly, "For now Crawley, for now."

.

It strikes Mary, sometime later curled in front of the room's only half decent TV, that she and Matthew have slipped very easily into old habits.

With little else to do with their long day confined to her room, they've ordered a movie from the hotel's overpriced entertainment menu and have proceeded to talk loudly over the top of it, debating its details and arguing about the comparative lack of talent shown by its stars.

It's just like it used to be so many months before.

"You know," Mary begins when credits roll, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you just wanted to come by here this morning to score yourself a day bunking off and watching movies."

Matthew feigns affront, "That's not why I came by and you know it."

She's feeling all little risky when she shoots back, "Then why did you come? ...Why did you stay?"

"Because you're unwell." A pause. "Because you deserve to have someone looking after you."

"You're a very good nursemaid," Mary smiles.

"I'm glad to hear it." He looks over her for a long moment and she gets the distinct impression that there's something he wants to say. She waits long enough to give him the chance to come out with whatever it is but he seems to think better of it and turns back to the TV.

"What do you say to another film? Do you think your stomach can hold out for a couple of hours more?"

"I doubt it," she groans, "But isn't that what the pause button is for?"

.

It's late into the evening – a few, mercifully less frequent, trips to the bathroom later – that she turns to him, "I wish you'd just come out with it."

Matthew looks surprised, "Come out with what?"

"Whatever it is you keep wanting to ask. I can see there's something."

She caught more than a few of his loaded looks as the afternoon has gone on.

"It's nothing."

"It's _something_." Mary gives him an expectant look. Enough is enough.

"It's just..." He doesn't finish.

"It's just _what_?"

He looks more than a little uneasy when it comes down to it, "Well you explained the situation about Patrick..."

"I did," she coaxes.

"But that wasn't all of it."

Mary doesn't understand, "Well what else is there?"

His mouth wraps around the words hesitantly, "Kemal Pamuk."

"So you _were_ there." It's not a question.

"Does it matter?"

They both sort of dance around the issue, talking about it without talking too much.

"It is if it's the reason you didn't talk to me for months."

"I didn't talk to you for months because that's what you _wanted_," Matthew sounds hurt.

"I never wanted that."

"Well you certainly didn't want me around."

Mary is genuinely sad, "That's just not true."

A loaded silence hangs between them for a long moment.

Eventually she gets up from the bed.

"I need to get some air. I need to get out of this room."

"Mary, you're in no state to go anywhere."

"There's got to be something. This place has a roof, right?"

She hauls the duvet from the bed, forcing Matthew to his feet.

Wrapping the cover around herself she moves toward the door, turning to find Matthew looking at her with uncertainty.

"Well come on!" She waves her arms as best she can from inside her duvet cocoon indicating that he should follow.

She's glad to find the roof empty when they emerge into the cold air. Though the chill runs right through her, she just pulls the duvet in closer and heads right for the edge.

Looking out over the city she begins to explain, "You know, all of this – Patrick, Pamuk... what happened with us – it all comes back to the same thing."

She can hear Matthew not far behind her, "And what's that?"

"My family. And all the mess that comes with it."

Every time – all the problems that seem to follow her around at work and in life, all of the things that seems to make up the aching space between her and Matthew – it comes back to Crawleys and the secrets she's bound to keep.

"I don't know if I can tell you everything; I think I would like to, but it's not that easy," she speaks almost wistfully and with a quiet honesty, "I'll explain as much as I can though, if that's what you want."

"Do you _want_ to tell me?"

"...I do. I... don't want to lose you. Again."

He comes up beside her, placing his hands on the waist-height wall right next to hers. "That's not going to happen."

"Good." She nods absently and takes some time to gather her thoughts. The warm presence of his body up beside hers is reassuring and it helps her find the courage to begin, "I suppose you will have heard about Sybil."

It all starts with Sybil.

"Your sister?"

A small nod. "It was in the news a fair bit. I suppose it's not often that the granddaughter of a Prime Minister dies in such grim circumstances."

"I read about it," Matthew confirms, "...It was meningitis?"

"It was horrible. She's been sick for a short while – she'd had some headaches, been drowsy and confused but no one really knew what was going on, not least the waste of space doctor Papa had called out."

Explaining it, she finds, is harder than she imagined it would be. She doesn't let herself think on it all too often and laying the matter bare for the very first time brings about an ache she can't box away like everything else.

Turning away from the edge and toward Matthew finally, she can feel the moment her face crumples and the first errant tears fall.

"Oh Mary..." His arms reach out and she curls herself into them.

It feels safer than before.

With comfort warming her a little, she continues, "They argued so much about what to do – my parents, the doctor – they were too busy fighting among themselves that by the time she started to fit..."

The look on Matthew's face, so close to her own now they're pressed together, makes it clear that he knows what had followed next.

By the time they'd worked out what was happening it had been too late.

They'd watched as Sybil died a horrible death.

Mary gathers her strength. "It tore my parents apart. Not just her death, as horrible as it was, it was all the indecision. Mama blamed my father for not getting the right help in time, while Papa mostly blamed himself. Their marriage just... fell apart."

He doesn't seem to know how to ask, "Are they... Did they ever work themselves out?"

"Hardly," she responds darkly, "They still pretend that they're the picture of a happy marriage in company but Mama basically lives in New York now. She went all the way across the Atlantic to get away from it all... To get away from _him_."

"Your father said she was coming home soon."

"A flying visit I'm sure. She runs her business from over there – it's doing rather well. Which, I suppose, brings us to the next problem."

"Which is?"

"Business." She gives him a knowing smile, "This is where you get your explanation for Pamuk."

He's still got a hold on her but as the heated moment passes, she turns to face out over the city again. She doesn't let his arms fall away entirely, instead leaning against him and – she has to admit – enjoying the closeness.

"The mess of my parents' marriage is not made any better by the fact that my mother, with Levinson Brothers, is significantly more successful than my father with Downton."

"I can see how that might be hard for him to stomach."

"It was the end of 2007 when Sybil passed away," Mary explains, more detached than before, "It destroyed my father, for so long he was just... absent – absent at home, absent from his marriage, absent at work. It was like that for a long time – all of the following year."

"So... 2008?"

"Exactly; it wasn't the best time to let go of the reins at Downton. Between that and some other things, the company took a battering through the financial crisis. He nearly lost it all."

She's skirting dangerously close to all the things she can't share.

She's given Matthew as much as she can without putting him in an impossible situation, without asking far more of him than she could ever deserve.

Mary stretches the truth to explain, "Pamuk worked with my father around this time, he helped to salvage the business after all that happened."

A muddy interpretation of things, but it's the best she can do.

"It was a difficult time for us all but as I said, my father struggled more than most. He used to rocket wildly between the highs and lows – it was like there were two different Robert Crawleys. When they were trying to sort everything out with Downton after the crash sometimes he was there and on board and others he was just... lost."

She continues, "I never really noticed and I couldn't have cared less, but Pamuk took a liking to me. My father and some of his associates did catch on though and every time Papa didn't want to deal with it, every time he decided to drop off the map they would send me to do his bidding and to try to fix all of Downton's problems."

She ended up in between.

She ended up inextricably a part of Pamuk and her father's mess.

"Pamuk travels around a lot and I haven't seen him a great deal since everything was sorted with the company." She finally gets to the part Matthew wants to hear, "A few months ago when you saw us, he was back in town and he wanted my father's help with some problem locally. Since Papa moved over into politics, he's tried to keep things with the business at arm's length so I was trotted out again to make sure it was all sorted. And that's all."

He seems a little overwhelmed in the face of all the information, "...That's all?"

"It seems silly now but there's so much _history_ there, there always seems to be so much riding on these things."

"With everything else you've told me, it does seem kind of silly." He struggles for a moment, "I suppose I ought to _feel_ silly."

"Why?"

"Because of everything that happened after I saw you there. My... reaction."

"Pamuk, Patrick... I know better than all of that now." She looks at him, trying to decide just how much she can say, "You know, with Patrick, that last time – it was a mistake that I made because I was struggling. It might all be my fault but you wanted nothing to do with me... I just needed... _something_."

"I didn't..." He struggles, "I didn't want to see you because I _did_ feel... And I thought, y'know, that compared to the likes of Pamuk I could never be the _right_ type. You're from a very different world."

They're still curled in together as they deal in vague and careful terms about their feelings and the tension is thick between them.

"It doesn't matter. Not like this."

He seems to consider this for a long while and eventually, smiles wistfully, "This – _us_ – it's a mess."

"I know."

His arms go tighter around her and for the longest time they just stand there.

Together.

.

It's some time later when Matthew returns to the roof with the two steaming cups of tea Mary had sent him back to her room for just a few minutes earlier.

As the cold of the night had drawn in, he'd tried to convince her to head back inside, but there's something about the roof terrace and all that has passed between them there that makes her want to stay just a little longer. Having managed to keep her stomach under control for the duration of their time out in the open air, she'd been able to strike a deal with Matthew – promising to eat a little and rehydrate in exchange for more time.

She likes to think he wants to stay a little longer too.

Having pulled two scant patio chairs and a sorry excuse for a table to their spot near the edge, they sit for the longest time just talking – about life, work, the world around them – catching up after what seems like too long.

The night is getting late when he asks, "How did your father end up in politics then, after everything that happened at Downton?"

"He started getting seriously involved when they made him a Peer in '06 – the business heyday," she almost laughs at the thought of a simpler time, "But he'd always wanted to be in politics – it was just his obligation to Downton that stopped him pursuing it all much earlier in life."

This seems to catch Matthew's interest, "What? How?"

"Downton was passed to Papa by _his_ father. It was the family legacy and he was duty bound to keep it going."

He makes the connection, "So before you left Downton to work for Carson, that same duty expected of you also?"

Mary nods, "More or less. Papa was very hurt when I followed Carson out of the business. Things between the two of them are a little... acrimonious these days, not least because my father thinks he stole me away."

"It must have been a difficult choice for you then."

Taking a sip of her tea, she explains, "Not really; I was young and stubborn – it felt good at the time to test Papa's authority. I won't shoulder all the blame for their little rift though, I imagine the situation isn't helped by the fact that Carson is in the job my father dearly wants."

"Professional jealousy can be a tricky thing," Matthew agrees.

Unable to avoid the parallels to her own circumstances and unwilling to delve too far into the situation with Carlisle, Mary just sips at her tea and makes the appropriate noises of agreement.

As she's hoped, Matthew moves on to the next thing.

"What about Carson then? Why did he go?"

She's quick to explain, "Carson worked for my father for a very long time. He never married, never had children – the job was his whole life. He gave so much for Downton and I think he realised one day that Downton never gave him anything back."

"So he decided to leave and become a politician?"

Mary smiles, "Carson is a traditional man, a noble man – he thinks that public life really means something and that he can make a difference."

"I remember you telling me that first day that he and Bates agreed to work together." He smiles back at her, the sort of smile that warms her through, "I couldn't quite work out back then what I was supposed to do about this amazing, fascinating person that had just shown up and disrupted my life entirely."

She scoffs, "I wouldn't say _entirely_."

The look that passes between them is heavy with meaning. "I would."

And despite her bravado, despite whatever she might have said, Mary knows she would too.

_Entirely_.

.

"Go to sleep Mary." He reaches over to turn out the light.

"You're worse than my mother," she moans. "Actually, that's not a good comparison. My mother was never any use when we were ill."

"You've been sick all day, you've barely kept anything down and it's now-" Matthew looks at the clock on the bedside table, "-1 o'clock in the morning, because despite my best intentions I allowed you to keep me talking out in the freezing cold until the wee hours. You. Need. To. Sleep."

"Urgh," Mary lets out a groan and tosses around the duvet that he'd tucked her under not long before.

"Aren't you even a little bit tired?"

"Of course I am."

"Then why are you trying to stay awake?"

She glares over at him in the darkness, "I can't sleep with you hovering over there like that."

In response to this suggestion, and without really thinking about it, Matthew drops to the bed.

"There."

It catches him just seconds later what he's done.

After a moment, she rolls over to face him.

"Are you just going to lie there until I fall asleep?"

"Maybe."

Mary laughs softly, "If that's what you want."

She closes her eyes and even in the dim light, he can't go past how delicate her features are, or the sense of peace that seems to settle as she lies there...

She interrupts his thoughts, "You know, if my Granny ought to have thought it was improper when I was sprawled on your couch all those months ago, I don't know what she'd have to say about the two of us now."

"I am on top of the covers! I am above reproach."

He's reaching wildly to justify their situation but he can't feel bad for it.

He can't feel bad for _this_.

"Of course," she agrees in good humour.

"You're not complaining, are you?"

"Not at all," her response is low, "I just would have thought that you might have been more concerned about propriety given your situation and your... significant other."

Significant, indeed.

"Mary..." he tries to begin.

It doesn't really go anywhere.

She says softly, "She's a nice girl. I like her."

No. No, they really shouldn't have this conversation now.

"Can we... _not_ do this?"

Mary is undeterred and he feels strangely ill at ease when he realises she's trying to reassure him, "You're a good person, I know you'll do the right thing by her. You don't need to worry about me trying to take away from that or to lead you astray somehow."

"That's... That's not the problem here," he breathes.

"Then what is?"

"...I can't make all of that part of _this_."

Matthew's not sure it makes sense even to himself, but it seems to be the best explanation he's got.

He tries to elaborate a little more, "You know... there are a lot of very good reasons why Lavinia and I ought to be together. She's a nice sensible girl, she's put up with me for a long time, we're going all of the same places in life..."

Mary nods seriously, "Those sound like good reasons."

"They are. We're from the same world."

It's all the things he says when he's trying to convince himself.

When Mary's brow wrinkles and she goes to say something, he interrupts, "You know, what you said before... _I_ was struggling too. With all this. Then Lavinia was there and it just..."

"Yeah."

It's a moment of shared understanding.

Her eyes close for what seems to be the last time and Matthew watches as her breathing evens out.

"Night Mary."

"Mmm." She smiles along with the guttural contented sound.

He falls asleep not long after, still on top of the duvet. At peace.

.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 24 July 9.17 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: No place like home

Day 2 back in the office after last week's political road show – I'd forgotten the simple joy it is having a staff around that can bring you a cup of tea.

Hope you've got a bit more colour back in your cheeks this morning; I'm still not convinced you were 100% yesterday.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 24 July 9.24 AM

To: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Subject: Re: No place like home

Grown a little too familiar with the perks of power, Matthew? And here I thought you were one of the nice ones around here.

Also – I'm just fine, you really need to stop worrying so much, it's not an attractive trait for an otherwise very attractive person. Stopping by my flat on a weekend to check up on me was just about enough – all this hovering at work is making me nervous.

I don't do all that resting, recovering, sitting around and doing nothing nonsense, you should know that.

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 24 July 9.31 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: No place like home

I just don't want to end up on a bathroom floor somewhere holding back your hair again. It's very nice hair, but all that vomit is rather unappealing.

Don't you get all up in arms about me coming by on Sunday – I would suggest you had a very good time watching telly with me in the end up.

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 24 July 9.38 AM

To: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Subject: Re: No place like home

Maybe I did. Doesn't make your mothering any less annoying.

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 24 July 9.42 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: No place like home

_Maybe_, eh? You don't fool me, Miss Crawley.

You doing the usual dinner thing tonight with Westminster staff?

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 24 July 9.47 AM

To: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Subject: Re: No place like home

It's The Hon. Miss Mary Crawley to you. I'll have you know my father is a Lord.

The standard invite has come around for dinner tonight but I can't really be arsed making nice to all the usual faces. I think I'll take advantage of my supposed sickness while I can and make my excuses.

.

From: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 24 July 9.58 AM

To: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: No place like home

So you're sick when it suits you then? That's not very honourable, The Honourable Miss Crawley.

It's a shame, because if you weren't up for the staffer's dinner I was going to suggest we do something to ourselves, but if you're too ill...

.

From: Crawley, Mary (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Tuesday, 24 July 10.07 AM

To: Crawley, Matthew (J. Bates, MP)

Subject: Re: No place like home

Stop being ridiculous Matthew.

Where were you thinking for dinner?

.

It doesn't really occur to Matthew until part way through the main course that he and Mary have never actually been out to eat just the two of them before their meal that evening. They may have gone to group dinners, attended political events together and even eaten take out in front of their respective televisions, but never before have they found themselves at a table for two in the corner, laughing over a bottle of wine and a shared starter.

He has to admit, it's quite a good time.

He's taken her to a little restaurant not far from the Parliament but still tucked away enough that it's remained relatively unknown. He'd found it almost by accident back in a time when he'd had little to do with Mary or her usual crowd and has been pleased for the chance to return.

What's better, he finds, is just how impressed Mary has been with his choice.

"You've done well," she smiles, "I would never have known this place was here."

"It's quite the novelty being able to show _you_ something about Westminster. Usually you're the one stuck showing me everything."

"I wouldn't say _stuck_ – I certainly don't offer a comprehensive orientation to all new staff that find themselves at the Palace of Westminster."

"Just the really important ones?" he chances.

A slow grin, "Just _you_ actually."

They've been... flirting – for the lack of any other term – like this since they left Newcastle the week before. It's easy, it seems to happen almost accidentally and he can't help but encourage it just a little, if only to prolong the buzz it gives him each and every time.

It's probably the exact reason he _shouldn't_ be letting it happen, but Matthew has all but resigned himself to all the mistakes he's about to make. There's something about her laid bare as she was in Newcastle and as eager as she is to spend time with him now that tends to drown out his better and more sensible angels, leaving him happily resigned to her company and their comfortable repartee.

He lets the moment go on a while longer, a content sort of feeling fizzing through him as they can't quite look away from each other.

He has to remind himself sometimes, of all those reasons that pulled them apart the first time – all the reasons Mary gave him and the ones he's sure she didn't – they're all still reasons and they're all still there between them.

Eventually, trying to focus himself on something a little more reasoned, he brings himself to ask, "So I hear all was not quite as it appeared with the whole defence issue last week; something about that Sarah O'Brien and another one of her schemes?"

Mary rolls her eyes in that way Matthew's sure she must have worked hard to perfect, "Turns out that all the fuss was kicked up not because of the MPs that actually _cared_ about the increased spending, but because O'Brien wanted something out of Carson and it seemed to be the fastest way to get it."

"How does that work exactly?"

"She knew that tensions were running high enough that's she'd be able to unite the dissenters and cause a big enough stir, forcing Carson to pay her some attention."

"And she was the one that talked them all down once – presumably – she got whatever it was that she wanted?"

After a bite of her food, Mary nods, "It's a shaky fix, but you do what it takes."

He's surprised, "That really works?"

A shrug, "Sometimes. All the talk of revolt went away when we wanted it to and after we'd paid our price, but to be fair, there are still a lot of people fairly unhappy with the legislation. Like I said – it's a shaky sort of fix but Strallan's working on it all before the vote next week."

"You must think I'm terribly green to still be surprised that this is how it all goes," he admits, if a touch self-consciously.

"I don't think you're green." And then she looks him over warmly, "I like that you're not jaded by it all. It reminds me of good things. It gives me... hope."

"Hope?"

"Hope that politics isn't just full of idiots and the self-interested."

"So you don't think I'm an idiot then?"

Her response is serious, "I've never called you an idiot and I've never thought anything of the sort."

"From Mary Crawley, I imagine that's high praise," he's flattered.

"You know, Anna said that to me once – the first time I met you. We spoke about what happened after that first meeting and she seemed to think I was being unusually nice in my assessment of your abilities."

"Really?" Matthew finds it all hard to imagine. Everything from those months seems so very far away.

Her words are frank – cool but genuine, "Really. But you haven't let me down yet."

There's a big part of him that likes that she's back to being the detached and controlled Mary that she so often shows the world – it makes what she's saying all the more _real_.

To her, it's just a fact.

Mary is good with facts.

The dinner goes on – they laugh and talk and smile through a dessert and they linger until the restaurant is all but empty, late enough that he's not keen on putting her in a cab alone when they finally stumble onto the street. He rides with her to her flat, wavering as she goes to get out of the car and eventually doing what he's told when she tells him not to get out.

"I'll be fine. You can watch me get in the door if you like."

"If you're sure."

She gives him this coy sort of smile that would suggest that that's not entirely the case.

"Goodnight Matthew."

The cab door closes.

.

She's running through messages with Daisy the following afternoon after a long morning of meetings when it happens.

Edith.

"Your sister rang twice while you were gone. She wanted to talk to you as soon as possible."

"Edith _always_ wants to talk to me as soon as possible." She heaves a sigh and dismisses Daisy back to her desk.

For a brief moment, she considers leaving the message and getting on with her day – a whole ocean of distance between them means she ought to be able to feign ignorance of the whole issue well enough – but in the end she figures it's probably worth just getting it over with (_ripping the bandaid off_ Edith would call it in some of her most affected moments) rather than have it hanging over her the rest of the day.

She'll just keep calling after all.

Quickly checking the clock and working out the time difference, Mary dials the number with no small amount of apprehension.

"Hello?"

Oh lord; it's the fake accent that gets her.

"It's Mary; I got your message."

"Well this is a first – I wasn't expecting a call back from you until at least tomorrow."

Her little jab doesn't even come close to leaving a sting.

"Oh you know me, work is always so busy. I called as soon as I had a spare moment because I knew it ought to be important."

Mary grits her teeth through a smile.

"Yes, it's always you and your work. If you keep working as much as you do you'll never have time to actually live your life."

"I live my life!"

"Oh yes? Do you have a boyfriend I don't know about? Met any nice men lately?"

Straight into the heavy conversation apparently.

"I'm fine Edith; I meet lots of nice men doing what I do."

"Ha. Oh really?" Her sister doesn't sound convinced.

"I do."

"Name one. Name one person that you've met in your little political bubble who's not a fool or a complete sleaze."

"I can name plenty, Edith, but nothing I can say will mean anything to you."

"Won't it?"

"It won't."

"Try me."

_Urgh_.

She's tempting fate by bringing it up but then, by this stage, she'll do anything to make her point, "There's a new guy, he's working for one of the MPs that joined up with us after the latest sex scandal – he's just one of a _number_ of people I have come across at work who are neither of those things."

Mary has always been very good at making the truth go a rather long way.

"...What's his name?"

In the background, she can hear Edith telling a small child to quieten down.

She takes advantage of the brief break in the conversation and tries to move things along, "Honestly Edith, this can't be why you called. Is there something you need, seeing as it was so _urgent_?"

"I want to know this person's name first."

"Matthew. Are you happy? Now, what do you want?"

"Matthew is it? Who does he work for?"

"Seriously, Edith..." It's a low warning.

"Fine. Fine, I suppose I can prod you more about it when I'm back in England – that's why I called."

Oh _great_.

"You're coming back to England?"

"With Mama. She mentioned to me that she was making the trip back and thought I should come along. I thought it was a terrific idea!"

The fake American accent wouldn't be quite so ridiculous if Edith still didn't talk like a Malborough-educated, Knightsbridge-frequenting English rose.

"Are you bringing the kids?" she asks with some trepidation.

"Of course!" she exclaims in what Mary can only describe as her smug mommy voice, "I could hardly leave the poor angels here with Buck. He'll be working far too much for that."

Edith had moved to America to take up a position at her mother's company some years before. Perpetually unlucky in love and perhaps more than a little heartbroken over the death of a sister and the stinging rejection of one Patrick Gordon, she'd jumped at the chance for a change of scene.

She'd lasted just six months in the job, resigning to get married to one of the most plainly American men Mary has ever come across and to 'focus on starting a family'.

Her four children (four very _American_ children – three rowdy boys and a prissy little girl) had followed in rapid succession and these days, Edith spends her time devoted to her children's every need, passionately advocating for 'family' causes and writing a blog which appears to have the sole purpose of being judgemental about other mothers.

And non-mothers. (Mary would know.)

And really anyone doing anything in a manner she deems 'unworthy'.

Yes, Edith Ryan (née Crawley) seems to really enjoy her fulfilling life filled with children and judging people.

"Oh wonderful," Mary responds flatly. "You'll be staying at the Big House with Papa?"

"And Mama," Edith makes a point to add. She continues pointedly, "I trust that you'll make some time to come and see us all?"

"Of course I will. Papa mentioned throwing a dinner for Mama's return – there's that at least. How long are you here for?"

"A week and a half."

"Send the dates to my assistant – I'll pencil it in."

"Mmm, your assistant and I are getting to know each other well," Edith attempts a last swipe at Mary's career choices. "I'm surprised this one's lasted quite so long."

"Daisy may be a little... soft, but she's effective."

"If that's what you want to call it."

Their call wraps up not long after and once free, Mary slumps back into her chair, taking a deep breath.

Edith is coming.

Edith is coming to no doubt poke and prod her about her love life and life choices, somewhere amidst the circus that is the Crawley family all brought together in one place.

And here Mary though the Americans had a thing against cruel and unusual punishment.

.

"Just come in for a moment," Mary opens her front door ushers Matthew inside, "I'll grab that briefing book for you and I'll call for a taxi."

It's late on a Friday evening and after drinks with British Airways for MPs and staff, both Mary and Matthew have taken advantage of a lift back to her flat on offer from one of her friends.

Though Mary makes a point of not attending too many of the glorified parliamentary piss ups that she's invited to in any given month, tonight's is one she does her best to go to each time it comes around – if only for the free flight upgrades she can wrangle down the line with the right amount of well-placed charm at BA's bi-annual drinks.

Possibly not the most honourable thing she'll do each year, but a reality in her line of work nonetheless.

Throwing her jacket over the back of her sofa, she heads into her bedroom to look for the book she's promised Matthew.

When she returns, she asks, "Did you eat much at that thing?"

"Not really. Finger food is hardly filling."

"I was going to order some-" She catches herself; she _was _going to order some Chinese from Ellen's but she decides she might be better off letting that one slide, "-Japanese, if you wanted to stick around to eat something."

The question itself is an absent one; she doesn't think much of asking him to stay because somehow – and very quickly – Matthew has become that sort of friend whose time she takes for granted. She doesn't have many people in her life she considers this way (Anna among one of the few) but something's changed since Newcastle and she can't be anything but glad for it.

Matthew smiles, "Why not?"

"I think I have a menu in the drawer, I'll get it for you to have a look."

She fishes it out for him and phones in an order once they've both made their choices. Hungry and a little worn down from the week, Mary is grateful when it arrives quickly and they both forgo her table, planting themselves wearily on her couch to eat.

"I'm surprised you don't have some glamorous plans for your Friday evening," Matthew points out cheekily, "Can't imagine there's much excitement to stay in and eating take away with me."

He says things like this from time to time – as though he somehow believes that when he's not around, she leads a life of glamour and luxury. The truth is that she works far too hard and far too much to have time for any of the sorts of things the girls she grew up with – the type of girls she's sure Matthew must be imagining – get up to.

She gave up on all that and on all those types of people many years ago and she's never looked back.

"You overestimate my capacity for excitement. I assure you that not only is my down time comparatively dull, eating with you like this will be quite the highlight of an otherwise quiet weekend."

He laughs, "Well that puts me under even _more_ pressure then; I better show you a good time."

"You're doing just fine." Mary takes another bite of her food before asking as casually as she can manage, "You're the one I would have thought ought to have exciting Friday night plans."

He scoffs, "Hardly."

"What about Lavinia?"

A shrug, "It's not a big deal. I'll see her later in the weekend."

"So no plans tonight then?" Mary treads carefully.

"No plans."

With each question and answer, a seriousness has crept into the space between them.

Unsure of what to say next, Mary returns to her food and lets the silence hang a little longer.

"We've talked about this before. Sort of," Matthew begins tentatively.

Mary can only give him a questioning look.

"I think... I think Lavinia is good for me." He takes a steadying breath and continues on, carefully dancing around the issue that is now heavy between them, "Nothing has changed here. You had reasons that seemed to be pretty powerful and I'm trying to respect those."

And there it is.

His words take the wind out of her momentarily.

"It's true that the reasons are still there..." She struggles, "But maybe they don't matter quite as much anymore."

It's dangerous – so very, very dangerous to be thinking and speaking this way and yet Mary isn't sure would have it another way.

She knows what it is to have distance between them and she knows now what it is to fall asleep and wake up beside him. Her reasons are strong but _this_ is beginning to seem stronger.

"Do they matter... _enough_?" Matthew asks tentatively.

It's a hard question to answer, though the importance of it is not lost on her. The trouble, she finds, is that it's never been just about her – it's Matthew that will get stuck with her mess if she allows this to continue.

"Sometimes I think they do."

"And what about the rest of the time?"

She tries to explain, still dancing around the edges of her fears, "I don't want you to... suffer for getting involved with me."

"What if I don't care?" he asks confidently before pressing her further, "How will I suffer any more for _that_ – for being... closer, than I would as we are now?"

He has a good point.

She's let it get this far.

"I don't know. I don't have any answers for you other than to say that I won't- I _can't_ let what happened before happen again."

Matthew holds her gaze meaningfully, "Last time, you pushed me away."

Staring at her hands, she repeats herself, "And I can't let it happen again."

The tension between them is palpable and unable to relax back into their evening together, Matthew goes to leave not much later.

"Thanks for dinner," he fumbles, standing in front of the door.

"It's fine."

"I'll... see you." His arm goes out, seemingly as some kind of awkward wave, but it hovers there as it brushes by where Mary is standing.

She steps closer.

"Goodbye Matthew."

He pulls her in just a fraction with his extended arm and kisses her briefly on the temple. Though heavy with meaning, it's an innocent sort of kiss and is over as soon as it began.

Matthew steps through her door and leaves.

.

Nothing.

Silence.

Six days later and Matthew Crawley has dropped off the map.

Mary is beginning to worry.

She'd sent him a text message on Saturday – a carefully crafted, cautiously timed text message that had gone unanswered and left her with a nagging concern through Sunday. On Monday she'd flicked off an even more nonchalant email but again there had been no reply despite her Westminster spies confirming he had been in his office each day this week as normal.

Yes, with everything from the last night she saw him fresh on her mind, the uncomfortable itch of worry is starting to make itself known.

She doesn't like it.

With the silence now creeping into a gloomy August Thursday, Matthew never having reached out to her of his own accord, she's done her best to throw herself into work and as the morning draws on, she finds herself huddled off camera with Anna while Carson gives a press conference.

Giving her a rundown of the day in hushed tones Anna remarks, "I'm still getting the odd question from journos about Carson and Carlisle and this supposed rift between them. They clearly think there's something to it."

Mary is incredulous, "What, because Carlisle got bored and left the cabinet tour early?"

"Supposedly."

She scoffs, "Carson has _never_ liked Carlisle."

Not from the moment he strong-armed himself into the Chief of Staff position, leaving Carson with little recourse.

Still, they try to make the best of it.

"We try not to make that too obvious to the press," Anna points out wryly.

"I know; it's just, why does it have to be _that_ that tips them off? That had nothing to do with Carson and everything to do with Carlisle's misguided vanity. He got _bored_; he didn't like being without his creature comforts in London."

"That's what I'll be telling them. Perhaps dressed up so it's a little more... palatable." She smirks.

"You always were good at that."

Anna continues, "The other one I keep getting is this vote tonight. Are you sure it's locked down?"

"Anthony Strallan hasn't flagged any concerns as yet. After what happened in Leeds it's always going to get some extra attention."

"I know. It's just... this seems a little different. Keep an eye out."

Mary nods, but isn't too concerned. Sarah O'Brien knows when she's got a good deal.

There's only a brief pause before Anna asks, "So I've covered everything else – am I allowed to ask about Matthew now?"

Mary sighs, "No word."

"Still nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing."

They've gone over this before, but still Anna asks again, "And there's not something you said...?"

"We did talk about... _things_. But it was in such vague terms, there's nothing that should have prompted a reaction quite like this."

"Do you think he got spooked?" she tries.

"I don't see why; he's still with Lavinia and he seemed pretty set on that. Nothing's going to change."

Anna tips her head, "It's very odd."

"You're telling me."

Things wrap up at the conference only a few minutes later and after slogging through a handful of meetings, Mary spends the afternoon in her office. With the rise of the House postponed in an attempt to get their defence bill through before the end of the parliamentary sitting week, she's settled in for a long night.

She doesn't realise just how long until there's a knock at her door.

"Miss Crawley?" Her assistant pokes her head through the door.

"Yes Daisy?"

"There's someone here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment but it seems... urgent."

This catches her attention.

Daisy seems to pick up on her sudden interest, "It's not Matthew Crawley."

Oh.

"Then who?"

"Mr Strallan."

"Anthony Strallan? What on earth is he doing _here_?"

"He says that he can't find Mr Carlisle," Daisy explains a little urgently, "And that you're probably the only one that can help him anyway."

Mary rolls her eyes, "Send him in then."

When he steps through the door, Mary begins to worry. He looks nervous, jittery and more than a little alarmed.

The vote.

Oh shit.

"What on earth is the matter, Anthony?"

"I can't do it." He twists on the spot uncomfortably, "I... I can't do it."

"Do what exactly?"

Maybe it's not as bad as it looks.

"I can't get the numbers for the vote tonight. There's a group of them... and they're going to cross the floor."

Apparently, it's _exactly_ as bad as it looks.

"_What?_" Mary is aghast. "You said everything would be fine."

"Well I didn't so much _say._ It was more a case of letting you believe..."

She shakes off Strallan's utterly ridiculous suggestion, "How bad is it?"

"Forty five. Maybe fifty."

"_Fifty_ MPs voting with the other side?"

"Yes."

"It was thirty two weeks ago! And that was a worst case."

Strallan stumbles, "It's an avalanche. The rebellion two weeks ago – it got them started on something."

"I thought we shut it all down? I thought when we bought off O'Brien that things were sorted?"

"She did what she could..." Strallan desperately reaches to justify his failure, "I don't think Ms O'Brien knows what she created. She put a stop to it temporarily, but by doing what she did, she united them – they're together now and they're _organised. _Their issue is front page news."

"And _you_ – the Government's Chief Whip – can't do anything about it?"

"I've tried. I can't... I _can't_."

Mary looks at the clock, "Well there's still some time before the vote-"

He cuts her off, "No you don't understand. I'm here to warn you that my next stop is to see Carson. I'm- I'm going to hand in my resignation."

"You're resigning as Whip?" Her disbelief is clear.

"I feel I must."

"Can't we just-"

Again, Strallan interrupts, "It's too late. You can't stop this. Now I really must go."

She can only watch in horror as he turns on his heels and basically _runs_ from her office – an awkward walk-jog as he escapes the building entirely without looking back.

Well, _fuck_.

.

_**Rumours swirl about Coalition Whip's resignation**_

_In a surprising twist in the defence spending saga, Westminster has been abuzz this evening with the rumour that Coalition Chief Whip Anthony Strallan has resigned his post after failing to secure the numbers needed to pass an appropriations bill during an extended sitting of the House of Commons expected to continue late into tonight._

_It was first suggested two weeks ago that some Coalition MPs – and in particular, a large number of Liberal Democrats – were planning to cross the floor on a bill that will see funding to the armed forces increased by billions over the next two years. While at the time, the MPs involved were quick to deny any such intention, the suggestion that Anthony Strallan has now stepped down has reignited theories that the bill is about to fall over..._

.

When he taps on the open door, he can see exactly what Anna was talking about.

It's Mary Crawley as he's never seen her before.

Surrounded by chaos – phones ringing, papers everywhere, at least three support staff pushing past him to move in and out of her office at high speed – Mary looks frantic. Her usually well put together appearance has been replaced with something much more haphazard, hair flying everywhere and sleeves long since rolled up, and she's yelling into a phone like her life depends on it.

Her eyes flicker upward in his direction and she stops in her tracks.

"Think about it Napier – _okay_? I'll be ringing you back in twenty minutes."

When she hangs up, she literally throws the phone from her hands, before turning her attentions to Matthew.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?"

Oh dear.

He's in trouble.

"Look, I'm sorry-"

"_Sorry_?"

"I'm sorry about this week," he finishes. "I know how it must have looked but it's not what you think."

"Oh yes? And what do I think?" She eyes him off angrily.

"That I was avoiding you."

"You _were_ avoiding me. I texted! I emailed!"

"I know. I was just... taking some space," Matthew tries to explain.

"Why?"

So he says it.

"I broke up with Lavinia."

The chaos around them – the deafening noise and the flurry of people coming in and out – seems to fall away.

For a long moment, she just stands there.

Eventually, "...Why?"

Matthew shakes his head, "Not here. Not... now."

There's too much behind it. Too much he's not sure he can explain with all these people buzzing around.

Measuring him up, she asks, " So... later?"

He gives her a half smile – a hopeful sort of smile – but doesn't directly respond. Instead he remarks, "Anna told me you'd gone into meltdown over here. Apparently she was right."

"You spoke to Anna?"

"She's been calling all evening – wouldn't leave me alone until I answered. I, ah, think she hoped I would be able to talk you down."

Mary rolls her eyes, "She's being dramatic."

"Things do look pretty... manic in here," he tries to be diplomatic about it all.

"We're looking at 50 MPs crossing the floor, there's no Whip, no Whip's staff, his deputies-" her tirade is interrupted by a correction, "– now his _former_ deputies, I suppose – have no idea what's going on and we have about two hours to win them all back, lest Carson be faced with yet _another_ crisis to his leadership."

"So Strallan's properly gone?" he asks.

"He's gone. We're _trying _to keep it quiet to stop the press from making things worse, but you've seen how well that's worked out."

"What happened?"

She explains tiredly, "O'Brien created a monster when she brought them all together for her own selfish reasons – apparently they decided to continue on without her. Strallan quit when it all got too hard."

He processes this information, "Christ."

"Yes; _Christ_. Without a Whip it's our office that's stuck trying to salvage the situation. We're doing everything we can but I don't know if we're going to make it over the line."

"The vote's in two hours you say?"

She nods.

"Well how can I help?"

.

**8.30pm – One hour, thirty minutes to the vote**

"If you want Carson to even _think_ about campaigning in your constituency come the next election..."

Mary's voice, all but shouting down the other line overlaps with his own.

"You know, the paperwork for the development is on Bates' desk right now for ministerial approval. You _also_ know how strongly he feels about this bill, what with him being ex-military..."

(He's discussed the bill with Bates briefly. Matthew's sure he won't mind that he's taking advantage his position in order to get the vote through.

He'd all but advised him to do exactly the same thing when he'd called him into action not fifteen minutes before.)

He can hear triumph in Mary's tone, "Oh, so you _are_ thinking of voting our way tonight when the defence bill comes up...?"

.

**8.45pm – One hour, fifteen minutes to the vote**

"Barrow, I'm glad to finally get you on the phone."

"They said it was urgent."

He's a little too casual for Mary's liking. "Of course it's urgent – I left several messages."

Still casual, "You've got some trouble in the Commons?"

"It's a disaster, Thomas. We're going to lose the vote."

"What can I do to help?"

"I know you're close with Sarah O'Brien."

"...When it suits me."

Mary can almost taste the smirk behind his words.

"Well I need it to suit you for at least five minutes this evening. I need you to call her."

"Oh? And what do you want me to say to her?"

"I don't care how you do it, but I need you to make sure she isn't working some agenda here," Mary's tone does not allow for protest, "She was the one that kicked all of this off in the first place and while she's assured me now that she's done everything to fix her mistake, I'd feel lot better if you were able to confirm that for me."

A pause.

"What's in it for me?" he asks cheekily.

"I just won you an election Thomas, and if you want me to win you any more, I would suggest you do your bit. I know you have your eye on a Commons seat in four years and you'll be amazed how time flies."

The pointed warning behind her words is clear.

"Leave it with me."

.

**8.50pm – One hour, ten minutes to the vote**

Matthew has never spent a great deal of time in the many bars within the Houses of Parliament and until this evening, that had only ever seemed like a good thing.

Feigning confidence, he slides into the Strangers' Bar – one of the few still open late into a Thursday evening – and searches out his man. It doesn't take long.

"Mr Murray."

Mary said he would be here. Of course she was right.

The man turns, "I'm sorry – who are you?"

He extends a hand, "I'm Matthew Crawley. I thought you might like to talk about the vote tonight."

.

**8.50pm – One hour, ten minutes to the vote**

Knowing their schedule well, Mary is not disappointed when she arrives at the restaurant.

From neighbouring constituencies well outside of London, the pair of MPs she's looking for are as thick as thieves and as expected, out for their usual dinner at a Westminster Italian before they're due to return for the vote.

Through the window, she's almost perversely glad to see more than one bottle of wine on their table. Hitching her skirt (just a small amount, of course) and reapplying lipstick, she steps into the restaurant with a smile firmly fixed to her face.

.

**9.30pm – Thirty minutes to the vote**

Matthew takes a sip from the glass – the whiskey is far stronger a drink than he's accustomed to but he's fairly sure that he doesn't let it show. It's not his first obligatory beverage of the evening.

"The soldiers over there believe in what they're doing. There already is a date for them to be withdrawn and they're working toward that very productively."

When it had first been suggested, Matthew hadn't been sure how well he'd be able to work the 'soldier' angle but sitting here now, he finds himself believing in his own words.

"You were there, you say?"

"I was. I did several tours."

He sees Molesley, another name on Mary's list he's been sent to win over with his impassioned tales from the trenches, consider this carefully.

"So you agree, do you? You think they should get the money?"

"Of course I do. And here's why I think you should be with me on this one..."

.

**9.40pm – Twenty minutes to the vote**

Her phone rings.

"Mary, it's Barrow."

She forces a smile into her voice. About bloody time. "Thanks for getting back to me."

"It's not O'Brien."

"You're sure?"

"She doesn't want to let on, but she's shaken. She really didn't intend for it to get this far."

Mary sighs, "I was beginning to hope it _was_ her. I was beginning to hope there was some way to stop this."

"You haven't been able to reign things in?"

"I can't tell. We're trying – just about everyone inside the PM's office and even a few that aren't are spread out across the city trying to talk things down – I haven't been able to stop long enough to take stock of it all."

"Well I hope it works out for you."

"Yeah, thanks."

She doesn't give him the chance to say anything more and hangs up with a frustrated jab to her phone.

.

**9.55pm – Five minutes to the vote**

Having ticked each of the names of his list of people to see – as satisfied as he can be with the outcome of his first proper turn at wheeling and dealing in Westminster – Matthew races back to Mary's office, wanting to be there with the rest of the Prime Minister's staff to watch the vote.

When he arrives, he's far from surprised to find a crowd gathering around the TV though Mary is nowhere to be found.

Chatting to various staffers in between their final frantic phone calls, Matthew watches the door, waiting for each person that steps through to be the familiar face he's expecting.

As the minutes slip away, she still doesn't appear.

There's a buzz about the place as without Mary and without any real way of knowing how successful they've been at convincing their many detractors to fall back into line, there's a real amount of suspense about how the vote is going to go. One way or another, the outcome is far from assured.

With less than a couple of minutes to go, he dials Mary's number – it's busy on the first few tries but when he finally gets through, she doesn't answer.

He finds Anna across the room, "Have you seen Mary? Do you know where she is?"

Anna shakes her head, "I was just about to ask you."

"I can't even get her on the phone."

"Neither can I."

They're interrupted by shouts from the crowd around them.

On the TV and on the floor of the Parliament, the Chancellor is on her feet. It's about to begin.

.

_***HANSARD***_

_The Speaker resumed the Chair_.

_Bill reported, without amendment._

_Third Reading_

**10.02pm**

**The Chancellor of the Exchequer (Mrs Beryl Patmore): **I beg to move that the Bill be now read the Third time.

In recent days, this Bill has been the subject of great public attention and media scrutiny. Despite all that has been said, I believe that this Bill is necessary, I believe it is appropriate and I believe that it is the right thing to do by the thousands of British troops posted overseas.

Since our funding arrangements for Britain's defence force were reviewed earlier this year, it has become evidently clear that...

.

Bone tired, brain scrambled and the adrenaline long since worn off, Matthew can think of nothing more than crawling into bed and sleeping for hours on end until he rounds the last corner to his flat.

But as he turns into the corridor and as he sees the form propped against his door, hugging a bottle of champagne, the notion of sleep is quickly forgotten.

"What are you doing here?"

Mary shrugs, "Waiting for you."

Pulling up in front of his door, he holds out a hand and helps her up from the mat. Almost distracted, she doesn't step away once she's on her feet, instead lingering just a little too close as he looks her over.

"Where _were_ you? Everyone was looking for you back at your office."

Utterly spent, she gives him a wistful smile, "I couldn't do it, I couldn't watch."

"Did you... know?"

"Of course I did. I had to wait for the vote for it to be certain, but it all got to a point..."

She leaves it there.

And then they just _look_ at each other for a long moment.

It's done. It's over.

And they lost.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Mary."

Quietly, tiredly, "I know."

"We all tried _everything_ we could."

"I know."

Matthew tries to make her see, "Even you. There wasn't a single thing more you could have done."

Her eyes are cast down at the floor and she doesn't respond.

"Why don't you come inside? You look like you need a drink."

She's still standing close enough that he can physically turn her back to the door in his arms. One hand resting on her hip, Matthew unlocks his flat and ushers her inside.

Stepping over the threshold but still holding her close by, he asks, "Did you want your champagne there or something a little stronger?

She tips her head to give him a small smile with a meaning he can't quite read, "The champagne is fine."

"I'll get some glasses," but seeing her like this, he doesn't want to step away just yet. Brushing a hand down her arm, he asks, "I should ask though; why the bubbly?"

"I got it in between stops tonight. I was given it by someone who thought I might have something to celebrate by the night's end."

"Well sod it – sod them all_; _you can still drink whatever you want. Who cares that we didn't win it – it's pretty much just fancy fizzy wine and convention dictates that we get good and drunk after such a hard fought loss."

Mary laughs darkly, "As nice as that sounds, I'm sure there are a _lot_ of people that care." She rubs her face and tells him all too calmly, "I'll probably have to resign."

This, finally, is enough for him to step back.

Dashing around to face her, Matthew is aghast, "No! No, this isn't on you."

She still seems worryingly unaffected by the idea, "That doesn't really matter – someone has to roll for what happened."

"It does matter! Of course it does! What about Carlisle – where was he tonight? You could hardly go before him."

"Oh he was _around_; his idea of persuasion is slightly less palatable and probably slightly more illegal, so he kept himself well enough away from the office," she gives him a knowing, unimpressed sort of look. "But don't worry, he'll make sure there's a way to pin it all back into me."

"Well, regardless, Strallan's resigned; _he_ rolled, isn't that enough?"

Lips purse, "We'll see."

"Have you even spoken to Carson about any of it?"

Mary's head shakes, "A little before the vote took place. He's called a few times afterward, but I can't face that either. I messaged him to say we'd talk about it tomorrow."

Matthew feels a little better knowing that her talk of resignation hasn't gotten to Carson's ears just yet.

He's (_she's_) still got time.

Wavering for a moment, he eventually allows himself to ask tentatively, "So you couldn't face the crowd in your office, you can't face Carson but you're okay coming here to see me?"

"Well, you did promise you'd answer my question later. I came to get my answer." Mary seems to fall back on a quiet confidence now as they drift away from talk of work and politics.

"What question?"

"...Why you and Lavinia broke up."

Matthew feels as though he's supposed to be caught out by this – surprised somehow – but from the moment he helped her to her feet in the hall there's been a feeling of recklessness, the air between them charged and rich with friction just waiting for one small spark...

He's not surprised. He's not unprepared.

"You really want to know?"

"I do."

"Even if you can't _not_ know it, once I've told you?"

"Especially if that's the case." She urges him, "Matthew..."

"How about I get you your drink first?"

"And after the drink?"

Finally, he nods. This has to be done. "We'll talk."

He takes the reprieve while he can get it and retreats to the open living area. The buzz running through him isn't a nervous feeling as much as it is a sort of constant anticipation but he appreciates a moment to breathe all the same.

Something about tonight feels like it's been a long time coming.

This time, he's ready.

.

She doesn't sit, so much as she perches by his kitchen counter, waiting for him to return with her drink. The thrill of dread that had settled in her stomach after the vote has been replaced by something much warmer – the dull ache is still there somewhere but she knows that she made the right decision to come.

_This_ is what she needs.

"You were exceptional tonight, you know," he tells her as he turns back and hands her a glass, "No one could doubt that you knew what you were doing."

Be that as it may, Matthew's words only remind her of how it all ended.

Her self-deprecating sarcasm is obvious, "Shame I couldn't make it go my way then."

He looks at her almost sadly and he takes stock of her with a long glance.

"You carry the world on your shoulders, Mary. Not every problem is your own."

It's not what she was expecting.

This sense of responsibility – her determination to carry this alone – it cuts to the heart of who she is but still Matthew sees through that.

She's never had anyone who could do that before.

"Is that really what you think?"

"It's really what most people who were there tonight will think."

"I'm glad you were there," she offers, "You didn't need to help or to do all those things you did, but you were there and you truly gave everything you could."

"I wouldn't have let it be any other way."

"Well... thank you. So very much."

"You're welcome."

For a moment, there is peace.

Eventually he begins, "About Lavinia...-"

She interrupts, "You don't have to tell me. I've probably asked quite enough of you for one day."

"No, it's okay. I think I _want_ to tell you."

It seems so much to ask, that Matthew bare his secrets when she won't do the same, but in the moment she can't bring herself to feel bad. Nothing can make her feel _bad_.

The air is charged and the look that passes between them is heavy. It feels like time.

And so he explains, carefully, "That night, what you said... It's not so much about _what_ you said – the idea of _us_ – as it was so much about how it made me feel."

He's touching her again, innocently enough, a hand on her arm as she leans in closer still.

She has to ask, "How did it make you feel?"

"I felt... _whole_," Matthew offers her a slow smile, "There had been something missing that I couldn't have explained until that moment, but it was then I knew..."

She sidles closer, his arm able to curl round her as she comes, "I know what that feels like."

"Do you?" he asks on a breath.

"Without doubt."

Eventually, a long and heavy moment later, he continues, "Well, that was when I knew I couldn't let it go on. Once I _knew_ I couldn't pretend any longer."

"So you broke up?"

He seems resolved, "We broke up."

Mary closes the very last bit of distance, "Why disappear then? Why ignore my messages and my emails? Were you unhappy?"

"No. It's not that," he's quick to dispel the idea, "It felt cheap; if it was just a case of going from one to the other then I couldn't escape the feeling I'd done us all a disservice. It had been about _more_ than that, so it seemed the right thing to do."

"What about now?" Her voice is low and throaty, "Do we still need to take some _space_?"

He looks her up and down, inching in even more until they're standing all but pressed together, both unable to escape the moment heavy around them, and he smiles, "I think it's far too late for all of that."

His meaning is clear; any notion of keeping their distance is long gone now.

Her hand curls on his chest as an arm snakes around her waist.

"This isn't..." he grapples for words, "This isn't just you being reckless somehow, doing something irrational because of what happened tonight?"

"No," she breathes.

"You're not going to run away on me again? I don't think I could take it."

Again, "No."

Just as he'd said, it's too late and she's too far gone for that.

There is no part of her to remind her why this might not be a good idea. This is too much _more_ than that.

He kisses her, carefully and sweetly at first but as it seems to sink in that she has no intention of leaving, it grows more forceful.

Before she has time to adjust, he has her pushed up against his kitchen counter. Without breaking away from her mouth, one of his hands goes out to boost her onto the flat surface and her legs make way for him automatically. One hitches around his waist and something within her catches fire when his hand brushes down it.

This is really happening.

She has one hand in his hair and another draws over his face, a light caress on his cheek drawing a low moan from the back of his throat.

He pulls away slowly, their foreheads still pressed together when he asks, "We're really doing this?"

"We're doing this."

He kisses her again and she gets caught up in his confidence, throwing her head back as his lips dance down to her neck and humming with contentment.

"We should move," he says before another kiss, "From here."

"Mmm," she manages – the best agreement she can muster.

She's still wrapped around him when he begins to step back from his counter and she moves off with him, her feet eventually finding the ground again but not before he's been able to guide her some way across his flat to the next room. Feeling bold, she tugs his shirt free and blindly starts to pry apart the buttons while he retaliates by groping for the zipper of her fitted black business dress.

She laughs – a light and musical sort of laugh that is foreign even to her own ears, "Careful, this was an expensive dress. The zip catches."

After one more chaste kiss, he turns her around and tantalizingly slowly undoes the zip, leaving her weak-kneed with yet another kiss to the back of her exposed neck.

As they cross over into his bedroom, she steps out of the dress and turns back to face him.

He pauses. "You are..."

When his words trail off in a reverent sort of daze, she closes in on him again and finishes with his shirt buttons. At her impatient tug, he seems more than happy for her to pull it away, throwing it in the same direction as her dress.

"You're gorgeous," he finishes once they're pressed together once again, his hand running over her cheek.

"Thank you." Her face draws in towards his with a quiet smile, his compliment sending a thrill through her veins.

Her heart races and blood is thundering in her ears but she knows that this is about much more than getting swept away in the moment. They both know full well what they're doing.

A quiet intimacy passes between them as their faces hover where they are, just centimetres apart, taking each other in.

It doesn't matter, Mary decides, she'll find a way, she'll make this work.

It has to work.

She wraps her arms around him, just to feel him pressed in against her and again, more slowly this time, Matthew brushes a slow kiss over her lips.

With his help, and with fumbling urgency and haste, his trousers go next before Mary reaches around to make quick work of her bra. Far from feeling self-conscious, his answering groan gives her a heady empowering feeling, enough to see her strip away her underwear standing assuredly before him.

"God, Mary..." He can't keep his hands off her.

It's not long before they end up on his bed, sheets fisted out of the way by impatient hands that also roam between them over bare bodies, exploring and discovering. She tugs impatiently at the edges of his boxers and when they're hurriedly kicked away, they finally take a long moment apart, breathing each other in and measuring the enormity of what's to come.

His body is over hers on the bed and he's pressed along the length of her in the most deliciously intimate way. She brushes her hand up his chest and reminds him quietly, "I _want_ this. I want _you_."

"As I want you. But... not just tonight."

She nods once. "Not just tonight."

They come together, both unable to stop the low moans that follow and the exquisite friction between them as he moves, carefully at first, but with any notion of gentleness lost as something catches fire between them.

Her arms are around him, desperately seeking purchase, trying to anchor herself when sensation takes over and she can think of nothing but this moment that has her in its grasp, nothing but Matthew, nothing but _them_...

And as they fall over the edge, blinding perfect calm.

Completeness.

.


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

.

Her early wake up the next morning is far more pleasant than she's accustomed to.

When she comes to, Mary is aware of Matthew hovering over her, his hand dancing down her arm coaxing her back to awareness.

When her eyes open, he explains quietly, "Your phone's going off in the next room."

She looks at the clock and groans softly, "It's my alarm. I must have left the phone through there last night."

"You have an alarm set for before five a.m.?"

Dryly, she informs him, "I have a lot to get done before getting to the office."

"At five in the morning?" He gives her this dangerous sort of smile and leans closer.

Clearly humouring him she begins, "There are papers to read, most days I go to the gym, sometimes I join Carson when we force him out running along the Thames so that people will take pictures and other world leaders don't think he's soft..."

At this, Matthew laughs, "He doesn't strike me as a runner."

"He's not. But don't tell Ahmadinejad."

"And what about this morning? Are you going to up and leave me in the name of misleading the President of Iran?"

Her voice a little lower than before, she tells him slyly, "I think Iran can wait."

It earns her a kiss – simple and light but something she could get used to nonetheless.

He turns himself toward her and she works herself in a little closer. By the time they break away, the air around them is heavier than before and he takes her in carefully.

His forehead in at hers, Matthew asks tentatively, "Are we going to have to talk about this?"

"Probably."

"I thought as much." He pulls back a little.

"It's never going to be... straightforward. It's probably better that we talk so that you're... prepared for that."

She at least tries to be honest.

Matthew nods and with more affection than she feels she deserves, repeats, "I know. I'll do what I can to accept that."

"It's selfish of me to expect that from you."

"That's too bad. I get to decide how much I'm willing to give." He punctuates his assurance with a kiss.

Uncertain on whether or how to wade deeper into the mechanics of it all so soon, she lets the conversation trail off there and answers Matthew's comment only with a warm smile. She feels a little bereft when he gets out of bed shortly after but accepts his offer of breakfast and watches with no small amount of admiration as he dresses quickly and heads for the kitchen.

Pulling back on her dress from the night before and brushing out her hair, Mary follows him through.

"I'll have to send Daisy by my flat for something else to wear. I can only imagine how it will go if I show up in this again."

Sliding her toast across the counter Matthew asks, "You won't have time to go yourself?"

"Unfortunately not. Granny called last night; I have been summoned to tea first thing, no doubt to discuss everything from yesterday."

He looks at her earnestly, "You're not seriously still thinking of resigning, are you?"

"That's not exactly what I said," she tries to wave it off.

Matthew gives her an amused and sceptical look.

"I wasn't exactly in the most positive frame of mind," she concedes, "But there _will_ be questions to be answered. It's going to be a fight."

Before she has the chance to say any more, they're interrupted by her ringing phone and seeing Anna's name on the screen, Mary is quick to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, uh, it's Anna."

Her voice sounds unusual, almost distant.

"What do you need? Is everything okay?"

"It's fine," the response is quick and short.

"Are you sure? You seem... out of sorts."

"It's just..." Anna trails off.

"Just what?"

After a moment, "No, don't worry, I'm being silly. I'll sort it out myself."

"Are you sure?" Mary is wary.

"I am." She then asks, "Are you okay this morning?"

Watching as Matthew putters around his kitchen, Mary is able to answer honestly, "I'm fine."

"I _will_ be seeing you in the office later, right?"

"Of course. I have to go see Granny first but I'll be in as usual after that."

"Good." There's a short, hesitant silence. "You did everything right you know, we'll get through this. Carson too."

"I hope you're right."

There's a noise in the background and Mary can't quite make out Anna's muffled words at the other end of the line. Eventually Anna tells her, "I have to go. I'll see you later."

Still a little confused by the whole call and Anna's uncharacteristic evasiveness, Mary says her goodbyes with some amount of suspicion and sets her phone aside.

"Well that was odd."

"Who was it?" Matthew asks.

"Anna. She was definitely worried about something."

"But not about the vote?"

"I don't think so. I'll have to press her for some more information later; she's not usually so cagey."

She goes to leave not long after, clearing her plate and gathering what few things she has scatter around Matthew's flat.

Lingering close into him for just a moment, she assures him, "We'll talk properly. Soon."

"Okay. I'll see you later?"

"Tonight," she tells him confidently, "But in the meantime, perhaps we ought to keep things... quiet."

He tips his head, "That's reasonable."

"Good. I'll call you."

As the door closes behind her, Mary can't help her smile.

.

"I never did trust that Strallan," Violet Crawley is full of disdain, "And just _look_ at the mess he's made."

"I don't think the blame is entirely Stallan's," Mary points out.

"I wouldn't go standing up for him. In my day we would have had him shot for cowardice! Or desertion!"

She's slightly too excited by this prospect.

"Granny," Mary gives her a fond but withering sort of look, "You were Prime Minister in the eighties, not the first world war."

"All the same – I ran a tight ship."

"And you're saying Carson doesn't?"

"The circumstances are different. The hung parliament complicates matters."

"All the same – I don't deny that Strallan bungled the issue and it is right that he's resigned, I would just point out that there were others who contributed."

"Well yes," her grandmother concedes, "There's also that Sarah O'Brien. All scheming, no substance. I hope you have something ghastly in store for her."

"We can't well take back the money she got off of us. She is, however, running perilously close to losing her chance to run again, come the next election."

"I would hope so."

"I'm sure you would, Granny."

It's exactly why Mary is so fond of her.

Looking her over with an air of superiority, Violet asks, "You're not thinking of doing anything uncouth are you? I know times are hard Mary, but I wouldn't advise making any bold decisions."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I would hope you're not thinking of resigning your position with Carson."

"Why on earth would you ask that?" Mary is perhaps a little too defensive.

"Because I know you Mary," her grandmother gives her a significant look, "And perhaps... perhaps also because Carson telephoned me with his concerns."

"I beg your pardon?" She's a mixture of surprised and frustrated at the thought.

"He's concerned Mary; he knows how seriously you take these things."

"With good reason – he's going to be ravaged for this."

"And that is not your problem. Carson would fare much worse without you and he knows it. You're the best political mind in that office."

"He said that?"

"Of course he did and I would too – you're a Crawley after all," Violet seems more than happy to take credit for this fact. Primly, she adds, "Carson isn't an idiot Mary, he knows how valuable you are."

Sometimes it helps to be reminded.

Mary's not always used to having people in her corner but between this and everything that has happened in just the last twelve hours, she wonders if she's going to have to learn.

Eventually, she admits, "Well it did cross my mind – not because I _wanted_ to but because it seemed the right thing. I can assure you that I have since been brought to see the error of my ways."

"Oh, that is good news. It's a wonder what a good night's sleep can do."

Mary avoids choking on her tea.

"Yes, well, now you don't have to worry about intercepting me and talking me out of resigning before I go in to the office," she quickly establishes her grandmother's scheme, "Am I going to have to worry now at every turn that you and Carson are conspiring together? It sounds a rather nefarious prospect."

"It's your own folly for uniting us," Violet informs her gleefully.

"Watch it, Granny," but Mary is smiling. Gathering her things, she says, "I should go. It's going to be a long day and I need to get started."

"That's the spirit," Violet gets up to show her to the door. As Mary goes to leave, she adds, "You might want to think about changing your dress before you go in though, it looks like you slept the night in that one. _Honestly, _Mary."

If only she knew.

.

It is a special kind of torture, Matthew learns, to receive a call early on an already frantic morning from the father of the girl you spent the night before with.

"Mr Crawley?" William's voice comes over the phone intercom, "I have Baron Crawley looking for you on line one. Are you free?"

Matthew's throat gets a little tighter. He wouldn't _know_ would he?

No.

No, that's ridiculous.

"Ah yes, of course. I'll take it here."

Because really, what else could he say? Sorry, I'm avoiding your call because I shagged your daughter last night and it might be awkward for me?

Just, no.

Pressing the button line one with no small amount of trepidation, he answers, "Hello?"

"Ah Matthew, I was glad to get hold of you; I know it's a busy day so I won't keep you long."

"...Of course. What can I do for you?" He tries, but can't tell if he succeeds, to sound normal.

"Mother and I have done some digging around with the family tree, like I mentioned in Manchester. I thought you might be interested to hear what we found."

Good lord.

The family tree.

This is only getting worse.

Matthew has to clear his throat, "Yes, absolutely."

"How about dinner tonight?"

Again with the unexpected.

"It's not the sort of thing you can, ah, tell me on the phone?" he asks awkwardly.

"I thought it might be quite nice to meet properly, if we're to be family," Robert explains. "Besides, I have a table reserved at The Ledbury tonight and the person I was supposed to meet just cancelled. I thought I might impose on you and suggest that you might accompany me instead. I was rather looking forward to the sea bass."

"Uh..." Matthew struggles for how to respond.

Robert mistakes his hesitation, "I should have thought; it's a Friday night – you must have some lovely young girl expecting to see you this evening. Don't mind me."

"No!" The words slip out without Matthew really having time to think about them, an automatic response to the thought of Robert having any idea just who it is that might just be hoping to see him later on.

"You're free?" Robert seizes on the suggestion.

"...Sure. Uh, what time were you thinking?"

.

It's after lunch time before Matthew can get away but he takes his moment when it appears. There's been this childish sort of excitement building in him all day and despite the media and the questions and the complete circus that seems to once again surround them (he really ought to be used to it all by now) his anticipation cannot be touched.

In spite of his disappearing act in the week before, Daisy doesn't seem surprised to see him when he finally arrives and waves him straight through to Mary.

He's mindful to close the door firmly behind himself as he enters.

"What brings you here?" Mary greets him with a charismatic smile, getting out from behind her desk.

Not wanting to come across too seriously, Matthew flat out lies, "I can assure you I am here for wholly professional reasons."

The smile becomes a grin, "Oh, absolutely."

He takes a look around her office and remarks, "I see you're still employed then – that's always good news. No sacking, no resigning?"

"Yes; if your impassioned pleas last night and this morning weren't enough, Carson recruited my grandmother to talk me out of doing anything too drastic."

"I _did_ tell you."

"You did," another smile plays on her lips.

"Can this be the last we speak on the matter?"

"I would prefer it actually," she explains, "I'm not sure I'm quite used to having so many people worrying about me at once. It's unnerving."

"It's not unnerving. It's just life... _love_." He adds the last part toeing the line between awkward and significant. "Everyone gets to have someone looking out for them. You're just going to have to adjust."

"Is that an order, Mr Crawley?"

"Call it some handy advice for what's to come." He then asks, "But that was all your grandmother wanted this morning?"

"That and to make pointed comments about my state of dress. Apparently she could tell a little too easily how I'd spent my evening."

A horrified look crosses Matthew's face, "She doesn't _know_ does she?"

"Not like that!" She laughs lightly, "She just skirted perilously close to the truth with her usual barbs. My grandmother is annoyingly on point most of the time."

"Yes, well it's not just her, apparently we also have to be concerned about your father. He wants to go to dinner with me tonight."

It's Mary's turn to look concerned, "What?"

"Apparently he's done some digging into the family tree and has decided I'm distantly related somehow. He wants the chance to get to know me."

Dryly, she asks, "Oh god, he's not dragging out seventh cousins again and pretending like we actually mean anything more to each other than having the same last name?"

"I would say that's _exactly_ what he's doing."

"This is how most people lose thousands of pounds to total strangers," she rolls her eyes.

"Well I can assure you I'm not looking to fleece your father out of his riches. I think he's just interested because I'm in the same line of business and he happened to need a body across the table from him at dinner this evening." He then adds with amusement, "I did ask if you might be coming along but your father seemed to think you would be otherwise engaged in the company of some charming gentleman – you're busy and in demand apparently."

"Well I _was_ holding out hope until about five minutes ago that I'd have plans. But apparently the charming gentleman I have in mind would rather go to dinner with my father."

"I wouldn't say _rather_, I just thought I ought to stay on his good side. I feel that much could become important down the track." His eyebrows lift expressively and the space between them begins to shrink as they both move a little closer.

"Is that so?"

The urge to lean in and kiss away her smirk itches at him stubbornly, as does his awareness of their surroundings.

They're at work and he doesn't know quite where he stands.

"We still have to... talk. About this. About all of it," he tries to explain, "But I would still very much like to kiss you."

Mary's response is confident, "Well what are you waiting for?"

He leans in and she meets him halfway.

And with that, he knows they'll make it work.

.

By the time the starter has been cleared and the second glass of wine poured, Matthew has come to the conclusion that dinner with Robert Crawley isn't going as badly as he feared.

Despite Mary's vehement warnings to be on guard (a string of increasingly concerned and somewhat endearing text messages throughout his day) he hasn't found the whole affair to be too disastrous. He's vaguely aware there's _something_ – some story about Mary's dealings with her father that he's not yet privy to and with this in mind he's done his best to be on guard.

"So what brought you to politics?" Robert asks from across the table.

"I worked as a solicitor for a while," Matthew explains, "Bates was a client but given our common backgrounds we got along rather well. He had a vacancy and he asked me to come on as his man in London."

"Am I to take it you were both in the army?"

He nods, "And both eventually discharged through injury, though I suppose I have been a little more fortunate with my recovery."

"Oh my. May I ask how you were hurt?"

"Spinal injury. They told me I wouldn't walk again."

It feels odd sharing something so personal with Mary's father.

"I'm glad to see that they were wrong," his warm response seems genuine. If Matthew were to speculate, he would say that Robert Crawley had taken a liking to him.

If only to make things more bizarre.

He continues, "Would you believe that your Bates and I were once also in the forces together? It was before I left to take over the family business and we haven't exactly kept in touch."

"Oh? He hasn't mentioned it."

"I offered him a job once, long ago, but in this day and age I suppose he didn't want or need my charity."

"Is that why you don't have much to do with each other these days?" Matthew asks, finding himself interested in this small piece of his employer's history.

"I imagine so," a small amount of regret tinges his words.

Their meals arrive shortly after and Matthew is more than impressed with the calibre of the food. Their chatter continues, punctuated by satisfied mouthfuls and when the plates are cleared Robert takes to informing him, "You have to go three or four generations back to find the link, but it does explain the common last name."

"I'm sure you're glad to clear that up."

"I suppose. Isn't family history a rather fascinating thing?"

"It is," Matthew nods noncommittally before joking, "Had I known there was a Prime Minister in the family, I would have spent more time trying to use it to my advantage."

"Of course, dear Mama," Robert speaks of her fondly. "You know, I think she might rather like you. You ought to come along and meet her."

This catches him, "Oh?"

"We're putting on a big dinner at the house in a couple of weeks. My wife Cora is returning from New York for a short while along with our daughter and the grandchildren – I thought it might be nice to have all the family in one place for at least an evening. As a cousin, you really ought to be there."

"Well..." he hesitates.

"I insist. I would very much like for you to meet them all." Robert adds, "Besides, Mary will be there, and Patrick, so there will at least be a few familiar faces for you."

He can't tell if this idea makes him more or less inclined to come.

Eventually he responds, "...I suppose if you're insisting."

They don't stay too much longer after the main course with both opting not to have a dessert. Robert seems to be just a little sorry for the night to be coming to an end and as he farewells Matthew, he tells him warmly, "I don't have many male relatives, certainly no sons and my grandsons are all in America, so I do appreciate this chance to get to know you."

Glad at least to have made a good impression, Matthew nods, "Of course. Thank you for an enjoyable evening."

"I'll call you with the details for Cora's dinner."

Matthew has a feeling it's all about to get rather complicated.

.

They're awoken the following morning again by a buzzing phone.

Matthew groans at the noise from Mary's bedside table, "It's a _Saturday_."

After his dinner the night before, Matthew had appeared at her door with a soft smile and every intention just to talk – about his day, about her father and about _them_.

That wasn't strictly how it had ended up.

Also rather unhappy to be woken, Mary tucks her face into the crook of his neck and sighs, "It's not my alarm."

"Then what?"

It takes her a moment, "Someone's trying to call me."

Rubbing at her eyes, she sits up in the bed and reaches to silence the phone.

"It was Anna," she explains as she curls herself back into his side in the bed, "Though why she would want to call me so early, I have no idea. I'll ring her later."

"Mmm," he's half asleep already.

It's only a matter of seconds however until the phone goes again.

"Sorry," she kisses his temple briefly in apology, "It must be urgent."

Moments later she answers, "Anna?"

"Oh god, Mary," on the other end of the line, Anna's words are almost at a wail.

Much more alert, she asks, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"The papers..."

"What papers? What's happened?"

"Have they been delivered yet?"

Concerned for her friend, Mary struggles out of bed and gropes for Matthew's shirt still on her floor. Jamming her arms into the sleeves she reassures Anna, "I'm on my way to check now."

"Mary..." she trails off.

"What is it?"

"Just. I- I'm sorry."

Even more alarmed, she hurries to her door and wrangles with the plastic wrap around the first paper she finds.

Taking in the headline and the picture on the front page, her mouth falls open.

"Matthew...!" she calls back to her room without even thinking.

This is bad.

This is very, very _bad_.

.

_**Coalition kingpin Bates in bed with PM's trusted advisor**_

_John Bates, the leader of the Britain First Party that joined the Carson government in coalition earlier this year, has been caught in a series of secret liaisons with the Downing Street Communications Director, Anna Smith._

_The pair, who have attempted to keep their relationship secret were photographed exclusively by _The Mail_ locked in a passionate embrace outside Miss Smith's London flat on Thursday, just hours after the Coalition Government lost a major vote on defence spending._

Picture: John Bates kisses Downing Street Communications Director Anna Smith

_The involvement of Bates and Smith, whose position makes her one of the most senior figures working for the Prime Minister, Charles Carson, casts serious questions over the deal that elevated the BFP leader to a cabinet position. It has not been established how long their affair has continued but there is no doubt that Smith would have been heavily involved in the discussions that identified Bates as a possible coalition partner and subsequently installed him to power._

_The Opposition have been quick to respond to the photos, with Opposition Leader Tom Branson saying, "This is evidence of yet another dodgy deal done by Charles Carson and his well-connected staff in order to keep an illegitimate government in power. After concealing evidence of [former MP] Ian Laming's sexual harassment of employees to maintain their coalition agreement, this is yet another example of questionable practises and deceit at the hands of the Tories."_

_Branson also called for the resignation of Bates, Smith and Carson in light of the revelations about the pair's ongoing involvement. _

_Neither Miss Smith nor Mr Bates was available for comment at the time of printing. _

_._

She doesn't get a chance to talk to Anna before all the usual sharks start circling and they find themselves dragged into Carlisle's office for a crisis meeting. Matthew, whom she'd dropped by his flat for some clothes and to at least make an effort to arrive separately, appears just as they're heading in and joins them without a word, along with a harried looking Mrs Hughes.

Needless to say, Carlisle is furious.

"What the _fuck_ were you thinking? It's bad enough we've idiots like Ian Laming to contend with – now we have you lot bringing us down from the inside?"

Mary is first to Anna's defence, "Honestly Carlisle, I don't think it's quite _that_ bad."

"Not that bad? They're saying that the only reason we put Bates in the cabinet was because he was shagging Anna here." He aims an icy look at Mary before dripping with venom, he asks, "_Is_ that why we put him in the cabinet."

Across the room, Mary sees Matthew's knuckles go white as his hand balls to a fist.

"For Christ sake, it quite clearly is _not_. None of us had any idea about this until this morning."

"There was nothing going on back then," Anna tries to explain, still shaken but at least more coherent than she'd been on the phone. "I didn't even get to meet Bates until after all that had happened."

"So how long?" Carlisle asks pointedly.

"...Since Birmingham. On the Cabinet tour a few weeks ago."

It all seems to fall into place for Mary.

"They must have followed us home after the vote on Thursday. I had thought... I thought I saw something unusual and I did phone Mary, thinking I should let her know. I know it was a mistake but before I actually told her anything, I decided it wasn't worth raising the alarm on a hunch."

She reassures her friend, "It's okay."

But Anna is still trying to explain, "He's always been very kind to me. There was... _something_ there for a while I suppose, but John had always been very insistent that it shouldn't go any further for this very reason. It was my fault really, I pushed him, I... encouraged things."

Mary gives her a look that advises caution and Anna lets her explanation trail off there.

Her nerves already stretched wire-thin, Mary feels the tension ramp as Carlisle's steely glare turns to Matthew. "And what does Bates have to say for himself? He didn't feel like gracing us with his presence?"

"He's in with Carson now," Mary cuts him off cold, but a look from Matthew implores her to let him handle the matter himself.

"Bates is upset, to say the least. He's concerned for Anna," Matthew gives her a sympathetic sort of smile while Carlisle rolls his eyes, "And he's sorry for the trouble it'll cause Carson."

"He should be," Carlisle warns darkly.

Reading the tension of the room, Mrs Hughes intervenes, "What matters is what we do from here. Do we have any idea yet how we're going to respond to it all?"

"Well, for starters we'll be getting rid of Anna," he grouses in return.

Mary goes to refute the idea but is beaten to the mark by a furious Matthew, "How on earth is _that_ a solution? Doing that will only look like some admission of guilt over the whole matter when Anna has done exactly _nothing_ wrong."

Carlisle seems riled in the face of Matthew's defiance. They close in towards each other predatorily.

"At this level and in Miss Smith's position, you do _not_ just get to hop into bed with a senior member of the government. Her poor judgement has brought this office into disrepute."

Mary can see the disgust dance across Matthew's face. This issue and Carlisle's attitude are getting to him in an unusually effective way.

His eyes flicker briefly in her direction and she feels the weight of all that they have left undiscussed hovering awkwardly between them.

It all cuts a little close to the bone.

Matthew turns to Carlisle, "Frankly, I find your attitude disgusting."

"Oh do you?"

"Bates and Anna are free to do as they like as two responsible, unattached adults and no amount of your misogyny will justify Anna's dismissal."

"So you're calling me a misogynist?" There's a quiet threat behind Carlisle's words as he raises himself up with no small amount of guarded aggression.

"It's one way to interpret your actions."

For a frightening moment, Mary is convinced that Carlisle is going to lunge for Matthew and something within her readies for the moment she'll jump between them.

It's Mrs Hughes that diffuses the situation and she is stern and calm as she steps in to commend both of their attention, "Of course Anna won't be going. Mr Crawley here is right to say that provided the information she's given us is correct, strictly speaking she and Mr Bates have done nothing wrong."

"Thank you Mrs Hughes," Anna manages a feeble little smile.

"Of course dear." She continues, "I think our priority now should be disseminating the truth of the matter and making it clear that your involvement came long after Bates was promoted."

"Carson should make it clear he has full faith in Bates going forward," Mary adds.

Mrs Hughes agrees, "Yes, that would be best. Perhaps then it should be Carson that first speaks out on this matter; we should get him on television before the day is over."

"I'll talk to Carson, see that it's arranged."

"And what about Bates?" Matthew asks.

"We'll see how things go with Carson. You'll need to stay closely in touch with Mary here as the matter develops."

Mrs Hughes likely intends only to keep Matthew and Carlisle at arm's length given their earlier heated exchange, but the suggestion sees their eyes meet across the room and they exchange a heavy look.

It all feels a little familiar.

"Of course," Matthew responds more quietly, his gaze not leaving Mary.

"We'll leave it there until Mr Bates and Mr Carson are finished with their discussion." Mrs Hughes turns to Anna, "Perhaps you might like to come with me for a cup of tea; I imagine you need it."

The pair of them are the first to leave Carlisle's office and Matthew follows Mary as she also goes to move off.

Just as they both step towards the door, Carlisle speaks up, "I wonder if you might stay a minute, Mary."

Matthew seems to hesitate as she hangs back but with little alternative, she waves him off.

They tread a tricky line, especially when it comes to Richard Carlisle.

Just about masking his concern, Matthew reluctantly leaves, telling them, "I'll be waiting around for Bates."

Mary just nods and watches him go.

"What was _his_ problem?" Carlisle asks after he's gone.

"I imagine it was your attitude," she doesn't bother to mask her mildly unimpressed tone.

"He has no place speaking with me like that."

Mary makes a point not to sit, towering over him at his desk. "Oh please, Richard. He's Bates' Chief of Staff, it's his _job_ to speak up for him."

"But not for Anna. What is it, I wonder, that has him all hot under the collar?"

Mary feels the first tingle of alarm itch from inside her chest.

"This is hardly a situation where you can expect him to be the picture of calm. I would suggest you're reading a little too far into it all."

"Would you?" He's almost amused leaning back in his chair in some supposedly masculine show of power.

Mary doesn't give an inch, "I would. And you shouldn't be too concerned for all this – I can assure you it will all be sorted in good time. You'll see."

Though he smiles, his eyes are dark, "I'd better."

She turns to leave.

"Just remember Mary, I'll be watching – over you and over your little _friend_ there. With all the trouble the papers are giving me about my dealings with Carson and after what happened with the vote this week, you ought to be doubly sure you get this one right."

"I'll keep that in mind."

As she heads back to her office, she doesn't let any of her worries – not Carlisle's threats, not Anna's distress, not even Matthew's loaded, worried glances all sent in her direction – affect the way she carries herself.

Once she gets there, she closes the door firmly and slumps herself against it briefly.

It's a perfect mess.

.

When an interview is scheduled for Carson later that day, Mary makes the decision not to go and instead briefs him in the office and again on the phone once he gets to the studio. For Anna (and a little for herself, she has to admit) she's determined to be thorough.

Her boss, she knows, had been a little put out when she'd announced that she'd be staying back at the office but while she'd put on a brave face and assured him it was solely because of her confidence that it would all go swimmingly, her words feel a little hollow. The truth that she would never admit out loud is that not only is she wary of Carlisle and his watchful eye, there is also a growing unease stemming from the whole mess – from those things that are unsaid and those things that are hitting a little too close to home – that seems to be tying a knot in the pit of her stomach.

In her office, she has the television on and she watches with some interest as things get underway. Beyond the pleasantries and the initial introductions, the questions are not easy ones.

"_Have you spoken to Miss Smith directly about her relationship with Bates?"_

_"Absolutely."_

_"And are you concerned about this relationship?"_

_"I'm not. Not once I was provided with all of the appropriate information."_

Wildly uncomfortable with the supposedly 'improper' notion of discussing a staff member's sex life on national television, Mary can tell Carson is struggling a little with the interview. Though she is accustomed to it, she isn't sure his short answers will come across particularly well with the viewership at large.

Mary continues to watch as the reporter fires off more questions with mixed results.

_"You understand how it must look. Why is it, if I can ask, that you are completely confident that their relationship has not somehow affected your dealings with John Bates?"_

_"Miss Smith and Mr Bates did not become involved until very recently; they did not formally meet until well after Bates joined our government in coalition. I also know them to both be morally upstanding people and I do not believe they would allow this personal matter to affect the manner in which they conduct themselves professionally."_

_"Do you believe they are indeed morally upstanding, even when they have concealed their relationship in this manner?"_

_"I think they did so with the right intentions at heart."_

_"Oh, _do_ you?"_

As much as is pains Mary to admit, there's no narrative to his explanation, no pizazz. What she'd tried to stress to Carson earlier in their various briefings had been that their current drama is the sort of situation that needs a bit of texture, a rich and interesting story to keep the masses entertained.

In his time as Prime Minister and indeed, more broadly as a politician, Carson has largely been able to get by without this particular skill on the back of his apparent nobility and his commitment to propriety, but both of these traits seem only to be hindering him now.

It goes on.

_"So you're saying that the general public should take you at your word that absolutely nothing inappropriate has happened before or after a coalition was established?"_

_"...Yes."_

_"Are you going to offer anything further that might substantiate these claims?"_

By the time the thing is finished, Mary can only admit that the whole affair has produced mixed results. As they had hoped, the facts are now laid bare and while they will go some way to taking the edge off the scandal, she's not sure they've done enough to engage the public and to win them over to their way of seeing things.

The media will still have more than enough to pick at.

The thought churns uncomfortably in her gut.

She turns the television off and at first she considers going to see Anna, at least to see how she's doing and to say to her all the right things that a friend should given the circumstances. Instead, she finds herself sending a text message to someone else entirely.

_Where are you?_

The response is swift.

_At the office. Have been in with Bates most of the day but he wanted to watch the interview alone. He kicked me out and closed the door._

Making a decision, she tucks her phone into her suit jacket pocket and gets up from behind her desk.

Telling Daisy to call if it's important, she sets off for Matthew's office.

.

The interview is not what he'd been hoping for and, judging by his door, now firmly closed, not what Bates had been hoping for either.

There's an awkwardness to it all – sharp questions and blunt answers that Matthew feels won't fully quiet the suspicions of the average person watching. Though it is not an easy thing to admit, this is not going to be a scandal forgotten by the day's end.

As he watches, certain questions grate at him uncomfortably – a sort of damning self-awareness nagging at him on the periphery.

_"And are you concerned about this relationship?"_

_"I'm not. Not once I was provided with all of the appropriate information."_

_"Were you aware that they were involved prior to the story breaking this morning? When _was_ it then, that you were __provided with this 'appropriate information'?"_

It's the secrecy that makes it all worse, he knows. Even though there would have been no easy way around it all, it is clear to Matthew and more regrettably, clear to the man now interviewing Carson, that it is the secrecy that gives the whole notion of scandal some traction.

However you try to look at it, secrecy is an implied admission that all is not entirely _right_ with what you are doing.

Needless to say, it's not been an easy day.

Unable to look away from the screen, so many of Carson's comments ring true.

_"Do you believe they are indeed morally upstanding, even when they have concealed their relationship in this manner?"_

_"I think they did so with the right intentions at heart."_

One thing he cannot deny about John Bates, is that he is a man of good intention. Matthew hasn't seen him before quite in the way he has today – Bates is beside himself, not only because of the drama he has caused but also because of the impact it has had on Anna.

Thus far, Matthew has established that the pair had grown close over time, coming across each other so very often as a result of their work. With both well aware of the complications involved, they had done well to remain professional for as long as they had but had eventually slipped when they'd travelled outside of London, embracing a sense of escape that comes with such a marked change of scene.

Once they'd started, they'd been unable to stop.

And the thing is, Matthew _understands_. He knows unusually well how these things can be so very complicated and he can only feel sorry for his boss who now seems so heartsick over the whole affair.

It doesn't help anyone – not Bates or Anna or even Matthew himself, when it comes to it – the Carson continues to stumble through.

_"So you're saying that the general public should take you at your word that absolutely nothing inappropriate has happened before or after a coalition was established?"_

_"...Yes."_

_"Are you going to offer anything further that might substantiate these claims?"_

It's not elegant and he's not sure it's going to work.

Just as it all draws to a finish, he finds himself surprised by a text message that lights up his phone. _Mary_.

_Where are you?_

Matthew doesn't hesitate before replying – it's an automatic kind of response that he can't quite seem to temper – and tells her where to find him.

He knows, of course, that she will also have seen the interview and he can't imagine that she'll be any more impressed with the way it all went. An unfamiliar concern seems to wear at him around the edges with the knowledge that she's looking to find him and with little idea what she might have to say should she appear.

He has to face it; the way it has all unfolded for Anna and Bates rings so very true to the suggestions Mary made months ago in her office – as two people in positions of power on opposite sides of a new coalition, she'd told him rightly all those months ago that their involvement would mean scandal, intense media pressure and rank disapproval. Today has only served to remind him that Mary Crawley is almost never wrong.

Back in that moment in her office, her comments had been about _them_ – it had been a reason to keep them apart and it had been a resolution that Mary had seemed very determined to stick to. It leaves him questioning how she might have looked past this idea these last couple of days, wondering if anything has ever really changed, worrying how the events of the day might give her cause to re-evaluate...

He's not really sure what to think.

Just a few minutes later, she appears at his door.

His greeting is a little reserved, "I thought you might be on your way."

"I should have let you know, sorry."

She doesn't come too far into the room.

"It's fine."

"I take it you watched the interview then?"

The question comes as he expected.

"Of course. I thought Carson... explained the details well enough."

She seems to understand what it is he's reluctant to say, "The _details_, perhaps. I don't think he managed so well with the overall story he was supposed to be telling – at least not enough to turn the tide of public opinion."

Matthew is resigned, "That's what I thought."

"It's frustrating. They're making out like it's as big as the phone hacking – though I'm struggling to see how two people getting involved because they actually care about each other has anything on scores of journalists systematically breaking the law and disregarding the privacy of others for years on end."

"When you put it that way..."

She brightens, "Still, there's hope for us yet – this was just the first interview."

"I know," he sighs, "It's just been a rather trying day."

She hovers on the spot and though he's sure that hers will have been no easier, she doesn't respond directly to his remark. Eventually, she begins, "I thought maybe... we should talk."

Something in him bristles at the thought, a little unwilling to face all that he's been wondering over – what he fears will end up a rather painful chance to revisit what had been said in her office all those months ago – especially in their current environment.

Still, he bites back on his concern and replies, "There is certainly... much to talk about."

"What's happened with Anna and Bates..." she trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Matthew picks up where she left off, "It does feel a little familiar."

She seems grateful for his stepping in, "It does."

"It's happening the way you said it would."

Mary shrugs in a noncommittal sort of way, "The media can be very predictable."

"Are you... concerned?" He doesn't go so far as to detail just what concerns he might mean.

"Anna and Bates' situation is a little different," she tries to explain.

"Is it different _enough_?"

Mary hesitates.

It may not be his finest moment, but it's a kind of self-preservation thing stirred up at the sight of Mary wavering that sees him suggesting, "Perhaps... perhaps it might be worth taking some space. Just for the next few days, while this all blows over."

She can't push him away if he asks for distance first.

All the same, she seems a little taken aback by the idea. "I- I suppose. It does make things a little less complicated."

"Precisely." He manages a grim smile.

"I should... go then," Mary says in a prim, guarded sort of voice that he hasn't heard aimed in his direction for rather a long time. "I imagine I'll see you in the office as this all goes on."

Right up until the moment she leaves, he has to fight back an urge to call her back and to somehow set things right.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, unable to find his voice, she slips away without any more said.

.

_**Carson insists staffer and prominent MP's involvement is not inappropriate**_

_In an interview conducted earlier today in response to growing public concern, Prime Minister Charles Carson has sought to assure Britons that the relationship between his Communications Director Anna Smith and BFP leader John Bates had no significant influence over a coalition deal struck earlier this year, or in any of Bates' subsequent dealings with his Tory Government._

_His reassurances however, appear to have fallen largely on deaf ears as a poll conducted by _The Guardian_ shows more than half of respondents (63%) feel that they are still concerned about the relationship and feel that there are more questions to be answered._

_In the notably awkward interview, Carson stood by both Miss Smith and Mr Bates and said that he understood their relationship had only been established in recent weeks. He also remarked..._

.

Mary is already in bed and is almost asleep by the time she hears the knocking.

Feeling tired and just a little sorry for herself, she'd turned in earlier than she might have otherwise, forgoing an evening on the couch to instead curl into her bed.

Not only does she need to be ready to go at it all again tomorrow, there had been other thoughts turning over in her mind she'd felt she ought to take time to sort through.

Matthew's request earlier in the day – the idea that they might take some distance – had of course not been without its merits but it still had chafed at her in an unfamiliar and surprisingly powerful way. She's not exactly sure what it was she was going to say when she'd seen him that afternoon but Mary certainly hadn't envisioned it going the way it did.

In her bed she had turned and tossed, pulling the covers closer around her ears.

She'd told him before he'd broken up with Lavinia that her reasons that had once kept them apart no longer mattered as much as they once had, and this much she knows is still true. Though the drama with Bates and Anna had shown her predictions to be pretty well correct, it had also given her the chance to consider how and whether she might fight back against it all should she find herself (should _they _find themselves) in a similar position.

Until she'd seen Matthew that afternoon, she'd been so ready to think that she could; that she _would_ when a time came that she had to.

Now, she finds herself rather at a loss.

It doesn't help her, of course, that Matthew doesn't have the full story – he doesn't know that her talk of dishonour and scandal was just one of the reasons she pushed him away and the only one she could speak of freely.

Lying in her bed – alone at least until the noise at her door rouses her – Mary had found herself lost in these thoughts, a complicated mess of should haves and shouldn't haves that don't really seem to be travelling in any coherent direction.

Mostly, she'd just felt unusually... alone.

As the night had dragged on she'd begun to drift, sleep coming uneasily and often stolen away by her brain still turning over. It's not just Matthew though, it's a strategy for the next day, it's how they might get themselves out of this – yet another mess that has befallen Carson and his government when they could certainly do without.

And then the noise.

She ignores it at first, not exactly sure what it might be, but when it continues, getting a little louder and more urgent with time, she hauls herself from the bed and makes her way through her flat to the door.

When she opens it, she is again surprised with who she finds on the other side.

"Matthew?"

There is a sheepish and lovely sort of smile playing on his features, "Hey."

Picking self-consciously at her unbecoming sleepwear, she asks, "What are you doing here?"

He steps towards her and his hands reach out, gently caressing down her arms. His careful touch stirs something inside of her and she easily folds in towards him when he pulls her close.

"I had to come. I had some stupid ideas about everything that's happened today – about _this_," Matthew explains as his hand traces a circle across her back, "I hope you'll forgive me."

"...What ideas?"

He sighs, "I don't know exactly." And then, "I don't want this to be the way it was the first time."

"It won't," she says simply.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

Matthew smiles, "Are you going to let me in?"

"In a minute."

And then she kisses him.

She kisses him because he's here and she's glad and because she _wants_ to.

When they break apart, he offers, "You know, we really need to stop doing this – this disappearing and not talking about things – it's hard work."

"Might I point out that this time was all your doing."

"I came back," he points out, "I couldn't stay away – not after all that's happened."

"I was having some trouble with the idea too," Mary admits, "Let's... not do that anymore."

"Agreed."

And on the back of his small, enamoured sort of smile, she finally lets him into her flat.

.

The day that follows is not an easy one for Mary.

The Sunday papers delivered first thing had brought the news that whatever they'd tried the day before hadn't quite worked the way they'd hoped and that Anna and Bates' so-called scandal continued as a hot topic of conversation, as well as of speculation and remonstration.

Like Mary, most of the media seemed to think that Carson's interview had been a little too awkward and had interpreted much of his uncomfortable blustering as some kind of poorly executed whitewash of the whole situation.

It was exactly _not_ what they needed.

The team inside the Prime Minister's office had spent much of the day trying to reengineer their plan of attack; Carson had put out an additional statement with the hope of clarifying and bolstering some of his remarks, though the odds of it making inroads Mary knows are not great.

There is something to be done to make it all right – for once she just doesn't quite know what it is.

Surprisingly, she doesn't speak with Matthew much throughout the day about their work or about Bates – he does send her messages throughout the day, as well as the odd email but they're all of a more personal nature, leaving her each time a little brighter than before.

Through all the mess, both of the public and more private varieties, Mary realises she hasn't had much of an opportunity to talk to Anna about it all and seeks her out early in the afternoon. It's a strange role reversal, she finds; Mary is not usually one to press a friend to speak openly about their troubles and she'll admit to feeling a little out of depth as she closes the door to Anna's office inside Number Twelve and offers her a sympathetic smile.

"I came to see how you are," she begins, trying to present herself in the right kindly manner that Anna seems to have perfected.

"I'm... fine. I'm doing fine."

"It's not easy, I know," Mary coaxes, "Have you spoken much to Bates since this all kicked off?"

"Not really. It would just complicate things more." She seems sad at the thought.

"Will you... continue? The two of you?"

Mary realises that this is the question that has never been asked.

"I care for him very much and... I would like to," Anna eventually admits carefully, "Even if it means having to leave my position here."

"You would choose him over me?" Mary asks, though gently. She finds herself able to understand.

"We will always be friends, you know, even if I don't work for Carson."

"I know. And I know that you must love Bates very much if that's your choice – I do respect that."

Anna gives her a curious sort of look but Mary doesn't elaborate. Instead she assures her, "Still, there's hope for us yet. You're still here aren't you, and it's not often I let myself be beaten by these things."

"That's true." She can't seem to help agreeing.

"You're my dearest friend Anna; I'm determined to put this right."

She returns to her office after that and spends the next handful of hours in meetings and making calls. As a Sunday, the office is quieter than she's used to and she appreciates the chance to get on with things in peace.

It's after three when she gets a text message:

_Turn on your TV. Sky News. And don't be too cross with me for my insubordination_.

More than a little nervous as to what Matthew might be talking about, she does as she's told and turns on the news.

Having no notice of any interview (insubordination, indeed), she is more than surprised when its Bates' face she finds on her screen.

The news banner along the bottom of the screen so eloquently informs her: _BFP leader, John Bates, speaks out for the first time about romance with PM's staffer_.

There is part of her that wants to panic – this has not been approved in any way, Bates has not been briefed by any of her team on what to say, the various possibilities and outcomes of an interview like this haven't been analysed to the last detail – but then she remembers that it's Matthew and for just one moment, she decides to have a little faith.

She texts Anna.

_Sky News, right now. Did you know?_

Anna replies quickly.

_Jesus Christ. No._

Putting her phone to one side, Mary turns the volume up to listen.

"_I just wanted the chance to air my side of the story. I fear that the public might not be aware of some of the... details involved."_

"_What sort of details?"_

"_I hope you understand, I don't find this very easy, but I feel I ought to make it clear that yes, I have loved Miss Smith... _Anna_, for a very long time but it is also the truth that I only met her after – and in fact as a result of – making my arrangement with the Prime Minister."_

"_You had no cause to meet before this time?"_

"_Absolutely not. Until that time, I was just a backbench MP and the leader of a very small party – the Downing Street Communications Director was far out of my reach. I will admit though, that once I met her I was entirely enchanted."_

Bates, like Carson is a rather stoic man, but it's his honesty and his obviously ardent feelings on the matter that rescue him.

"_Did you strike up a relationship right away?"_

"_Of course not. To start with, I had no idea that my feelings might be reciprocated and once that much was clear we both... struggled; we did our best to stay apart for a long period of time because we knew what it would mean. Anna – my Anna – is a very intelligent person and an extremely effective Communications Director; she knew how it would play in the media. She has been proven to be right, as I knew she would be. I did my best to protect her from that for as long as I could, but in the end, for both of us, not allowing ourselves to be together became too difficult."_

"_So how long have you actually been together, like you say?"_

"_Just a matter of weeks."_

And like that, Mary knows, this is the _narrative_ that they had been missing the day before. It had seemed like too much of a risk in the days past to have Bates in front of a camera where he could well be crucified for his part in the scandal but she sees now how she has underestimated his ability and the ability of Anna and Bates' story to perhaps set things right.

"_And has any of it affected your dealings with the Prime Minister or his office, do you think?"_

"_I can only say that I have worked hard – very hard – to ensure that it has not. Much of that sort of thing would have gone via my Chief of Staff anyway. He, too, is very competent – it was him that convinced me to talk to you today – and I imagine that he would have been able to tell and would have done the right thing if anything was amiss."_

The notion that this all might have been Matthew's idea stirs something within her. It is Matthew that has talked this private, guarded man into baring his feelings on a national news channel, Matthew who ran the gauntlet of defying the Prime Minister's office with a media strategy that would have been shot down in a second, Matthew who might have just pulled off a coup worthy of saving their skin.

For the last one, at least, time will tell. Mary can only hope.

And just as she thinks it can get no better, it's one of Bates parting remarks that catches her.

"_So where do things stand with you and Miss Smith now, if you don't mind my asking?"_

"_It's been difficult, there's no doubting that. I haven't spoken to her much, for fear of making things all the worse but I have expressed to her that I'll do whatever it takes to make things right. And whatever it takes for us to remain together."_

"_Does this mean you hope that you'll remain as you are, despite the stir all this has caused?"_

"_I hope for much more than that. I hope that she'll be my wife, that we can be a family."_

"_And you've told her this?"_

"_In so many words."_

Love, Mary decides, is a crazy and rather magnificent thing.

She should know.

.

_**Bates and Smith confirm engagement as eager public warms to their relationship**_

_Appearing in public together after an interview this afternoon where Bates candidly discussed their involvement, BFP leader John Bates and Downing Street Communications Director Anna Smith have announced their engagement._

_Though when it was first revealed, their relationship was a topic of some concern among commentators and voters, the announcement has largely been met with warm wishes from the public. _

_Beaming from the site of his London press conference, the Secretary for Communities and Local Government held his fiancée's hand proudly as they confirmed..._

_._

This time, when he comes around at night, she is expecting him.

"I've been waiting for you a while," she said as she closes and locks her door.

"It's been a busy day."

"Indeed. I hear you have a wedding to plan."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, and you should be careful you know," she gives him a meaningful look, "You wouldn't believe the number of Westminster staff who have told me horror stories about being political operatives one day and glorified party planners for loved up employers the next. And then, you have to watch out for the babies."

"Good Lord; not really?"

"Oh, it happens – something about politicians being unable to do anything for themselves. But I imagine you won't actually have to worry with Bates."

"Good." With this, he comes to stand before her and leaves the matter where it is when he kisses her easily, seeming to relish in the moment. Pulling away just slightly, he smiles, "Hello."

"Hello," she runs a hand along his face, "You did something rather wonderful today."

"I thought I might be in trouble for it, to be perfectly honest."

She tips her head, "You might still be with Carlisle, so do watch out, but I'd say I'm rather impressed."

"That's just because it worked," Matthew laughs.

"I suppose that's true," but she kisses him again to take away any sting to her remark.

After a moment, she steps away to open a bottle of wine in the kitchen and they settle on her sofa in a way that reminds her of old times.

The nostalgia of it strikes her with its sweetness.

"It was quite the turnaround in the media," Mary begins as he reaches an arm around her.

"Do you think?"

"There are news articles calling it 'a topic of some concern'. Yesterday it was the end of the world as we know it and today they're spinning fanciful stories about a great romance. Yes, I'd call it a turnaround."

"And it'll stick?" Matthew asks, if a little tiredly.

"I'd say so – there's more mileage to be had out of a wedding and they'll be onto the next scandal in no time," she shrugs it off. Then for a moment she takes him in, trying to read thing from him that she wouldn't see in other and asks seriously, "What made you do it?"

"Well Bates wanted to air his side of the story..."

"He never would have been so open with his feelings if he hadn't been pushed somehow."

"I suppose it did take some encouragement," he allows, with a careful sort of smile.

"Then _why?_"

Matthew seems to take his time with this one. "Because of _love_."

There's this way he's looking at her; she's seen it before a handful of times, including that first night, and something about it sees delicious tension grow rich between them.

_Love_.

He explains further, "Because people forget sometimes when faced with all this mess and when they're knee-deep in politics that love actually matters and that it deserves its place. Because, with that in mind, I know what it is to have things that need to be said and I thought it was time that we said them." After a beat adds a little more awkwardly, "...Or that Bates said them."

"And so you convinced Bates to bare his soul on national television?"

Matthew's lips quirk, "I browbeat him into it."

"I would have liked to have seen that," Mary's eyes dance with the air around them still electric.

"I was... rather determined. I was caught up with my own problems and all of my own ideas about secret romance; I thought if I could make Bates see..."

"You were right though – you saw it in a way we didn't and your romantic notions might just have gone on to save the day."

"I'm glad." His fingers twine with hers, "And it goes to show that even indirectly, you still had a big part to play in making it right. It was because of you..."

Again he trails off.

It feels like her moment.

Mary feels so unusually brave when she bolsters herself and commits to the coming discussion with the best of intentions, "I know it's not just Bates – I know that _we_ have things that must be said as well."

"We do." He pulls her in a little closer.

"I'll do my best to be honest."

Matthew nods as a sort of acceptance. He seems to understand that there will always be these limits, as much as Mary wishes there weren't.

It is, after all, for his own good. Because she cares for him so.

_Love_.

"Then..." he struggles to find the right way, "I suppose what I want to know, like you did, is _why?_ Why now when it wasn't okay all those months ago? This whole Bates and Anna thing... it's exactly as you said it would be and I thought that might put paid to all of this fairly swiftly."

"You must know..." Mary breaks off and tries again, "I can't imagine you haven't realised now that the reason I gave you that day wasn't the only one."

"I had a feeling."

"It's all the stuff I can't talk about without making things worse for you. It's not about me – not entirely, anyway – you _really_ don't want to know. You don't want the trouble it will bring you."

"But what if I do? What if I want to take the trouble?"

She looks at him, wistfully and meaningfully, "Do you trust me, Matthew?"

"Of course."

"Then you have to trust me that you don't want to know," she urges, almost desperate with her words.

He thinks on this for a moment, allowing her the chance to continue, "I told you before – and I meant it – that all of my reasons are still reasons. It's just..."

"It's just what?"

She faces the truth with steely determination, "It's just that I have a better reason for wanting to be with you."

Matthew's voice is low and crackles with the weight of what passes between them, "What reason is that?"

It's falling asleep in the same bed and waking up together, it's snippy little emails and a feeling of getting swept away in it all like never before, it's the buzz and a sense of strength that it gives her...

"It's... love." And then, "I just... love you."

It about the biggest and scariest thing she's ever said but there is no part of her that regrets her words once she hears them admitted out loud.

"Mary?" She listens closely to his uneven breathing, his unwavering conviction, "I do. It's crazy and it's so soon but God, I can't help it, I just love you. Hopelessly."

He can laugh, lightly and freely and wonderfully, in spite of himself.

"I might need a small amount of time – not to be apart – it's not about that; we just need to keep this... quiet until I sort a few things out."

"These are the things I don't want to know about?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Right," he nods shortly. "But we're going to do this? _Us_?"

"We can only try."

"We can do a lot more than _try_."

It's the last they have to say on the matter – lips crashing together and eyes fluttering closed – for a significant period of time.

.

* * *

**A/N: **All political-type anecdotes you'll find in this story are based on real experiences; spare a thought for my friend and colleague who knows more than he could ever need to about planning a wedding.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** While I'm loathe to spoil you for any part of what's to come, I'm obliged to point out a **brief trigger warning** for sexual harrasment-eque themes that applies for this chapter. There's nothing too graphic or too far gone, but be forewarned.

Thanks, as always, to Tadpole24 for beta :)

* * *

**Eight**

.

When she eventually makes her mind up about her plan of attack, Mary approaches her father at his office and not at home.

It feels more like a business sort of arrangement anyway.

Dodging Patrick through the halls of CCHQ, she shows up unannounced late the following Tuesday at Robert Crawley's door.

"Mary, what are you doing here?"

She smiles her very practised smile, "I thought we might have a bit of a chat."

"That sounds awful serious."

"I suppose it is."

She can see the concern in his features as she arranges herself on the chair before his desk.

"Is everything quite alright Mary? You're not in any trouble are you?"

She almost has to laugh, "I'm just fine Papa, and there's no trouble – you don't need to worry about that with me."

"Then what?" Her father is clearly at a loss.

"We need to talk about Downton."

She watches as his expression falters.

This is not a discussion he wants to have.

He's more hostile than before when he asks, "What is there to be said?"

"I want out," Mary is cold and firm.

"_Out?_"

"I don't want any of it to be my problem anymore."

"I- I don't think it's quite as simple as that."

It's not, and Mary knows it too. Still, she gives it her best.

"You need to_ try_."

Because she's trying too. She's trying to make things right with Matthew and to do that she needs to get as far away as she can from her father and his problems.

It's the push she needs.

"What is all this Mary? Has something... happened?"

"Not exactly," she replies vaguely, "I just need to get on with my _life_ Papa; it's ridiculous that this is all still hanging over me, even now."

"I can't..." Robert trails off, "You know if I could do something I would. It can't be much trouble to you now, I imagine?"

"Papa, I work under Richard Carlisle each and every single day. It is trouble to me every minute that he is inside the walls of Number Ten."

"Now, Mary, that's not-"

She cuts him off before he can dismiss her comments out of hand, "I have done my duty for near on four years. I've said nothing – be it to authorities or to Mama – and now I'm asking for something in return. I want you to _try_."

"Is is Carlisle then? Is he the one giving you trouble?"

"It's Carlisle, yes. But it's also Pamuk, and it's _you_, calling on me whenever it suits you."

"Mary..." He rubs at his temples, struggling. "I hope you know how much I _appreciate_..."

"Do you?" she stands, turning towards the door, "Then prove it."

.

Mary almost knows it's coming.

_Almost_ – hovering on the edge of her awareness – but not quite. So when Anna drags her out for coffee the following morning, the conversation that her friend seems determined to have is not at all the one she signed up for.

It starts out innocently enough.

"It seems as though it's all sorted itself out then – the media haven't had another bad word to say about you and Bates," she points out not long after they'd taken their seats.

"No, they've not. Just _lots_ of more favourable words," Anna looks a little exasperated, "I've had photographers follow me to and from work the last three days, though what they're hoping to see, I don't know."

"You're a great British love story – you're practically the next Kate and Wills," Mary quips, "It seems everyone wants a little piece of that now."

"I can only hope they'll be bored in a few weeks."

Mary smiles charitably, "Of course they will. As much as I'm sure the two of you are a lovely couple, in this media environment, these things tend to come and go pretty quickly."

"That's all I needed to hear."

"... But you're happy?" she asks genuinely.

"Very," Anna nods, convincing Mary with her confidence and a radiant smile. "I know it all seems a bit reckless but I'm absolutely sure."

"So long as that's the case." For once, Mary finds she might understand.

Anna scoffs, "What? You're not going to try and reason with me about it all? A whirlwind engagement after just a few weeks and you're not going to try and talk me out of it?"

She's taken by surprise, "Do you _want_ me to talk you out of it?"

"Not at all. It's just unlike you not to step in as the voice of reason."

"I am capable of being romantic," Mary points out, just a little put out. "You are as happy as I've ever seen you, so I trust that however unorthodox, this is the right thing for you."

"Oh, _right..._."

The look that Anna then gives her is smug to say the least.

"What?" Mary's eyebrows arc with confusion.

And then Anna seems to burst, unable to hold the words in any longer, "Did you _really _think it was going to completely escape my notice that when I called you at the crack of dawn on Saturday, Matthew was there at your flat?"

Mary feels her eyes go wide in a mixture of surprise and alarm. Though she knows better than to let her emotions play so openly, she finds herself unprepared for Anna's revelation.

"...Sorry, what?"

"What with all the drama, I didn't make the connection at the time but it struck me last night. Once you found out what was going on with me and Bates, you called for Matthew. He was _there_."

This particular titbit is one that Mary had rather forgotten.

With rather unfortunate timing, her phone starts to ring and it's none other than Matthew's name that lights up the screen. Snatching it away before Anna can see, Mary diverts the call to voicemail.

Sighing, she turns back to her friend and tries once again to dissuade her, "And if I told you it isn't quite as it looks?"

Anna looks unimpressed, "I wouldn't believe you."

"Why not?"

"Because the two of you have been dancing around each other for long enough! There's no way he's in your flat like that and something isn't going on."

"Well..."

Anna's face lights up, "There _is_! There's _something_."

"Any chance you could keep it down?" she almost hisses, "No one's supposed to know."

Eyes narrow, "Know _what_ exactly?"

She might as well come out with it.

"Matthew and I are... together. _Quietly_."

"Quietly as in...?"

"No one knows," Mary finishes for her, "You're the first. And the _only_ – at least for a little while."

"Why so secret?" Anna asks, not without a little concern.

"Because we know from experience how this sort of thing can go wrong in the press," she eyes Anna significantly, "And there are some other issues with my family and such – we're just taking some time."

"But you're happy?" Anna turns her own question from earlier back upon her.

"I am."

Mary's response is a little more sedate, but no less genuine.

She is _happy_.

Naturally, from here Anna asks a great number of questions – she wants to know the when and how and what of it all, excited at the prospect. Mary is her usual reserved self and offers less information than Anna continues to press for, but in the end it comes down to, "We just... fit together, and as time moved on, we had trouble staying out of each other's way. Matthew seems to understand something about the way I work – or at least, he puts up with it very generously." She pauses – it's just Anna and saying it out loud makes it more _real_, "I care for him. I... love him."

She's ready for it to be real.

Still, when Anna goes a bit soft and gets a romantic sort of look in her eyes, Mary is quick to pull her in and points out evenly, "Now, isn't this your turn to reason with _me_?"

"Oh come on Mary, this is a nice moment! Matthew has been crazy about you almost since he set eyes on you and I think it's about time you met someone _worthy_. I'm happy for you."

Mary has to admit, there's an unusual sense of satisfaction in hearing her words from after that first meeting thrown back at her. She doesn't believe in fate or any sort of 'meant to be' nonsense but she can at least appreciate a little symmetry.

With Anna's questions as answered as they'll ever be and Mary reluctant to offer any more, the pair head off not long after.

"You go on ahead, I'm just going to check my voicemail. I missed a couple of calls," Mary tells her as they step out onto the street.

Anna nods, "I'll see you back at the office."

Dialling in, she can only smile when she hears Matthew's voice "_Hey, it's just me. It's nothing important, just ring me back and I'll come by your office later._"

There's a pause. He seems to be wavering.

"_Love you. Because I can say that now, can't I? I love you._"

.

_**Business magnate Cora Levinson Crawley touches down at Heathrow**_

_Chairman of the powerful US-based company the Levinson Brothers, Cora Levinson Crawley, has been photographed arriving at London Heathrow Airport this morning._

_Lady Crawley, the wife of Conservative Party Chairman, Lord Robert Crawley who spends much of her time based in New York for business purposes, was accompanied by her youngest daughter Edith Ryan (also pictured)._

Picture: Lady Crawley, along with daughter Edith and Edith's four children, make their way through Heathrow Airport.

_There has been much speculation about the state of the Crawley marriage since Lady Crawley first assumed her position across the Atlantic in 2008. While no public statement has ever been made, Lord and Lady Crawley have not appeared in public together since this move._

_The purpose of Lady Crawley's visit is not known but it is assumed she and Ms Ryan will spend time with family, including Lord Crawley and eldest Crawley daughter Mary, the Downing Street Deputy Chief of Staff..._

_._

For all her wits and her stubborn streak that so rarely sees her doing anything that she doesn't want to, Mary is not exactly sure how it is that she finds herself food shopping in Knightsbridge with her mother and sister later that Thursday.

"Can you believe your father was going to get caterers in for tonight?" Cora looks at her, expressive as usual with her wide-eyed incredulity. Together, they're shopping now for supplies that Cora and Edith will use to instead prepare tomorrow evening's meal themselves.

Because of course the whole situation, which she is unhappy about to begin with, is made worse by the fact that her solid excuse for _not_ coming along (that is, that she has a job – a fairly important one that she rather ought to be doing) had been scuttled by Carson, announcing that she would do well to spend some time with her family while they're in town.

Sent to the slaughter by her own boss, she is now muddling through the shopping trip with no small amount of frustration, exasperation and distraction.

In response to her mother's comment, Mary points out, "He can hardly cook it himself."

Her father, for all intents and purposes living the life of a London bachelor and too long spoiled by mothers, housekeeping staff, wives and daughters, these days eats all of his meals in restaurants or from pre-prepared plastic boxes.

"It's time then that he learned," her mother nods decisively.

Mary's response is wry, "I hope you won't take tomorrow as an opportunity to give him some sort of lesson – we're having guests in and I would much prefer that the food be edible."

"Since when were you concerned about guests?" Edith cuts in.

"I was just making the observation."

"Is it because Patrick is coming?" she again presses.

Edith has always been funny about Patrick.

"_Patrick?_ Don't be ridiculous."

"Now girls," Cora steps in as she usually does, uncomfortable with the girls' routine sniping. Still, Edith's suggestion seems to have taken root and it's hardly a moment later when she turns and asks with a barely concealed agenda, "Have you seen much of Patrick lately?"

"Not particularly," Mary replies flatly.

"Then you'll be glad of the opportunity to see him tomorrow," her mother seems slightly too excited at the prospect. "The two of you always did get along."

"I don't think that's quite how you would describe it Mama."

"Oh I don't know..." Edith again slips in.

Mary can't deny the satisfied feeling that rises up when her sister is promptly distracted by one of her eldest sons (Connor – one of the twins – and in Mary's opinion, capable of being a bit of a horror) attempting to pull what seems like hundreds of pounds worth of produce down from the shelves.

"You should be careful speaking so freely of Patrick around Edith," Mary murmurs to her mother as her sister chases after the boy.

"Oh Mary, she's _married_. I hardly think that's a consideration now."

"I don't know..." She raises an eyebrow, "Being married doesn't always change a person as much as you might think."

"And how would you know?" Cora asks lightly.

Mary bites her tongue on what would otherwise be her natural response to the remark: _How would you?_

The state of her parents' marriage is far from her mother's responsibility. Not really.

They continue through the aisles and Mary mostly tries to keep to herself. Edith, it seems, mostly tries to get on her nerves.

"You're not bringing anyone to the dinner then, Mary?" she asks a little later, feigning disinterest.

"Neither are you," she retorts.

"Yes, well Buck is terribly sorry that he couldn't come over with us all. Poor thing is just _so _busy with work."

"I'm sure he's sorry," Mary says smoothly, "A free trip to London at Mama's expense? I'm sure he was beside himself to turn it down."

"Mary!" her mother scolds while Edith does little to hide her irritation.

She does pay either of them any heed, continuing, "And besides, I was under the impression that this was a _family _affair – besides Patrick who's as good as anyway – everyone I could want to be there is already coming, so why on earth would I bring someone?"

Well, at least that much is the truth.

"Speaking of a family dinner – what about this cousin that Papa has invited?" her sister asks.

"You mean Matthew?"

Edith gives her aabsent but funny sort of look and Mary suddenly remembers her phone call a few weeks before. She'd mentioned him.

Shit.

For a moment that feels longer than it ought to be, Edith seems to puzzle over the name while Mary, loathe to give her sister more ammunition, desperately hopes she doesn't make the connection.

Fortunately, the moment does eventually pass without Edith any the wiser and she instead asks, "And _how_ are we supposed to be related?"

"Oh the usual," Mary rolls her eyes, "He has the same last name, so naturally despite the fact that we're as related to him as any other stranger off the street, our father has embraced him as our own. I think Papa just rather likes him."

"How interesting," Edith simpers. "What's he like?"

"He seems nice enough."

She decides to leave it at that.

Edith has other ideas. "Is he young? Is he... attractive looking?"

Mary wants to groan. Her sister has now succeeded in irritating her in the most effective way possible without even trying.

"Why would you care? You're _married_."

"It doesn't mean I can't enjoy the view..."

Mary shoots her mother a satisfied and knowing look.

"He is alright looking, if that's what you wanted to know," Mary informs her coolly, "But I think he has a girlfriend..."

After this she decides to keep to herself for fear of making things worse.

And when Anna calls a little while later with urgent questions about a press conference, she's never been so glad for a best friend who knows how to so appropriately time a fake emergency escape call.

.

Though Matthew never actually made it to the office after his message the day before, he makes up for it by appearing in her doorway partway through the one that follows.

"Don't you ever work?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.

"They do let me out for lunch from time to time. And believe it or not, most of the time I'm here I've come on legitimate business for Bates."

"Just not this time," Mary smiles slyly.

"Not this time."

It's an odd balance to strike, but they seem to be making a fairly good job of it now they know what it is they're doing.

For the most part, anyway.

"Your father called me again about dinner tonight. He seems particularly determined to make sure I'm there."

Mary has to groan. "Should I be concerned that my father seems to like you more than me?"

"That's nonsense."

"No, honestly. I'm in the bad books at the moment while you're his shiny new plaything."

"Why are you in the bad books?" he asks, offhand.

"...I asked him for a favour," but she doesn't elaborate, instead warning him amusedly, "You should be careful you know, my father always did want a son."

"Yes, well perhaps we should leave him in the dark about how that might eventually come about, don't you think?"

He seems to think so little of his throwaway comment.

Mary finds it... unusually striking. She doesn't let herself dwell on it.

"You don't _have_ to come if you don't want to. I wouldn't hold it against you if you made your excuses."

"I can hardly get off on the wrong foot with your father, can I?" Matthew laughs lightly, "Besides, I think it might be... interesting to meet your family."

"But all of them? In one place?" Mary is clearly exasperated. "My father is bad enough, but there will also be Granny and oh _Lord_, Edith."

"Your sister?"

"My faux-merican sister, as Anna has so aptly termed her; she's coming back with Mama to visit. Edith is... a lot of work."

"She's your sister."

"That makes it worse," she shoots back, before continuing dramatically, "She has a _blog_ you know Matthew. She writes judgemental things about other women and their parenting techniques and posts them on the internet."

"I'm sure it will be fine."

"That's well enough for you to say," Mary is sceptical. Turning to him with a syrupy sweet smile, she goes on, "But remember that I warned you when Granny is insulting your breeding and Edith's fake American accent is making you want to stab yourself in the eye with a fork."

He doesn't think she's serious.

He'll see.

Once he goes, she doesn't dwell on any of it for too long. Her head is down at her desk when another voice interrupts a short while later.

"Was that Crawley I saw lurking around?"

Dear Lord. It's just like with Pamuk.

Richard Carlisle's habit of keeping an eye on her is exactly what Mary is tired of.

"Are you keeping tabs on me Richard?" She sounds jovial enough but there is also a careful accusation behind her words.

"Oh Mary," he laughs likes it's a joke, "I thought I saw him through the halls before?"

She gives him little to work with, "He was here."

"I hope there isn't any more trouble with Bates," Richard says lightly.

She's not quite sure now if this is a stab about Anna and her continued presence or Matthew and _his_.

Knowing Carlisle, it's probably both.

"No, it's all still quite alright; Matthew's solution has more than done its job. I wouldn't worry about any reoccurrences."

"So then, Mr Crawley just happened by for no particular reason?"

"That's how it would seem."

Concern begins to itch at her. Carlisle is rarely gets so fixed on something without some kind of higher motive.

"It's a little unusual... isn't it?"

"Hardly. We've seen a lot of each other what everything going on with Bates recently – he was just coming by to say hello." The response is calm and practised.

Still, he presses on, "But it's not anything... more serious than that, it is?"

Though she may be lying through her teeth, it unsettles her that Carlisle doesn't want to buy what is otherwise a well-reasoned explanation.

"Of course not!"

"Oh indeed?" His gaze is decidedly piercing, "Well that's good to know."

"I'm glad to have set your mind at rest." She gives him a wide smile that does little to hide her venom.

"Just looking out for this office," Carlisle says smoothly, "You ought to be careful Mary; there are so many people out there – the media, political rivals, what have you – who would all relish in the chance to ruin you with scandal. I'm just... making sure you're careful that way."

"Thank you Richard, but I assure you I can look out for myself."

With this she sees him out of her office.

It's a threat if she ever heard one.

.

"Do you think we should have arrived separately?" Matthew asks a little apprehensively as they both reach the front step.

"It seems like an awful lot of effort when we can just tell them we happened to arrive at the same time," Mary shrugs, "Besides, I don't think either of us would do well to face the wolves in there alone."

"Wolves?" He looks a little worried.

"Just remember that I love you when they're making you want to run for the hills," she smiles and dips her head towards his.

She relishes, however briefly, in the feeling of his body close in by her own. She kisses him – a pep-talk, a reassurance and a promise all at once – with the fingers on one hand lacing with his own, giving them a short and tentative squeeze.

"That bad?"

"Worse, sometimes."

"Oh good lord."

He kisses her again, quite possibly to tide him through what she's already warned him will be a challenging evening.

"Come on, let's go in."

Without giving him the chance to think on it all much further, she rings the doorbell.

This ought to be interesting.

.

**Pre-dinner drinks**

.

"It's so very nice to meet you," Edith drawls.

Matthew smiles warmly, "Likewise."

"It's not often we get to meet mysterious and charming long-lost family members. And Papa speaks so highly of you, you'll practically be our guest of honour for us this evening."

She's a little more... _genuine_ than Matthew is comfortable with.

Trying to keep a safe distance "I'm flattered and I must admit, a little embarrassed to hear it."

"You know, when Mary told me about you she mentioned that you were alright looking. I don't think she's done you justice."

Patrick, hovering on the fringes, just about chokes on his drink, "Mary said what?"

Amused, Matthew echoes, "Yes, Mary said what?"

"She did say you were alright looking. But I think you're _much_ more attractive than that..."

.

"Mary," her father greets her stiffly.

"Papa."

They sort of... look at each other for a long moment.

Eventually, she asks quietly, "How's my _favour_ coming along?"

"I'm... trying."

"Which means what?" she says, with an edge to her words, "You still have no idea what to do?"

"Mary, this isn't a simple-"

She cuts him off, "You need to talk to Richard Carlisle."

He hesitates over his answer long enough for them to be interrupted by Patrick.

"Mary, it's good to see you," he greets warmly, also exchanging a smile with her father.

"It's good to see you too, Patrick." Her response has a little more reserve.

"I was just having the most _interesting _conversation with Edith and Matthew..."

"Oh?" she asks with the polite amount of interest, "What were they saying?"

Before he can reply, from the kitchen comes a voice.

"Robert! The door! I think your mother is here," Cora calls across the room. Her father looks grateful for the opportunity to leave.

When he's gone, Patrick asks, "So does this mean you and Crawley are on friendly terms again?

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies lightly.

"I'm sure you don't." A laugh. "All the same; the two of you seemed chatty enough when you came in together."

"Despite what you may think Patrick, I _am _capable of being pleasant to others."

"I know you are. I know that very well." He sidles closer.

Mary is very aware of Edith watching with hawk eyes across the room.

She shoots Patrick a look and asks flatly, "What are you doing?"

With an impish look and a shrug, he says with a little too much confidence, "Nothing at all."

.

**The Starter**

.

"So Matthew. It is Matthew isn't it?" Violet turns to Robert at her side, so as to make a show of checking she'd gotten his name right, "Where is it that you're from?"

Without turning from her conversation though still aware of what's going on around her, Mary gives him a half-encouraging, half-cautionary sideways look.

With some amount of trepidation, he replies simply, "Manchester. But I haven't lived there since I joined the army."

"You're an army man are you?"

"I was for a time. You'll know that I work for John Bates now."

He's surprised when it's Edith who brightens with interest at this comment, "John Bates the MP?"

"You follow British politics?"

"A little. Enough to know what my father and sister are up to."

"Well, yes. I came to work for Bates as his Chief of Staff at the start of the year."

"Chief of Staff are you?" Violet looks him over, "That is a rather respectable position for someone as... _fresh_ as you are to politics."

There's just a note of disapproval riding somewhere under the matriarch's words.

"It happened rather unexpectedly really. I took a job at the start of the year when Bates was still on the backbenches but then everything happened with Ian Laming and the Coalition numbers. I certainly had no designs on higher office, it all just sort of... fell into place."

"Oh but doesn't everyone have designs on higher office? For a game of such divisive ideas, politics really does have a rather singular focus."

"I'd say my focus was more on the experience, rather than the ambition." Fearing his comment may have been rather sharp, he adds, "It's been an interesting few months, that I can say for sure. Mary has been an excellent help while I've found my feet."

"So you came to work with Mary rather... recently then?" Edith asks, eyes narrowed.

Mary turns. For the briefest moment, Matthew can read alarm in the way she snaps around and the way she looks over to her sister.

Promptly, she diverts her sister's attention, "Edith? You need to tell Patrick here the _delightful_ story about Jacob and his teacher at school. I'm sure he would love to hear it."

Edith is quickly distracted by talk of one of her sons, Patrick looks as though he's been taken at a loss and Mary looks uncannily pleased.

Under the table, he nudges her as a sort of question but she just shrugs almost imperceptibly in response.

Apparently Mary and her sister have a rather... interesting relationship.

"But of course Matthew," Violet again demands his attention, "Our Mary is a seasoned political operative. You should be grateful for her insights."

He tries to remind himself he can do worse than a lesson in politics from the great Violet Crawley.

That, and there are two more courses to go.

.

"We'll have to start thinking about the plans and all the food for Christmas next," Cora sighs from her place near the head of the table, overseeing the collection of empty plates from their entree.

It's Patrick that asks the question Mary herself would rather like the answer to, "Will you be back in England at the end of the year then?"

"Possibly..." her mother begins.

"But Mama, you'll have to come back from Christmas," though dry, there's almost a note of petulance to Mary's words, "You always come."

It's not so much that she's the sentimental type who longs for a family Christmas and more that she's spent so long working to holding onto the frayed edges of a family to give up now.

"_Almost_ always," Cora concedes.

"What am I supposed to do for Christmas otherwise?"

Matthew gives her a soft sort of look from where he sits.

She _knows_. Mostly, anyway.

But it doesn't make her family situation any less frustrating.

"You know if you're stuck there's always our place," Patrick chimes in, clearly thinking along the same lines but also, clearly out of touch with the reality of his situation. "The Gordons are always pleased to have you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I hope you will," he leans in towards her a little obviously.

With years of experience in the rather challenging art of Crawley family dinner spectacle, she can see various members of her family taking note of their conversation. Significant looks are exchanged. Some amount of glee is expressed.

She really wishes they wouldn't.

Turning to Matthew, she makes a point of warmly involving herself in his conversation. They can take _that_ however they like.

God, Patrick needs to learn when to give up.

.

**The Main Course**

.

Once the meals are on the table, Violet again demands Matthew's attention. "So what of this scandal involving Mr Bates?"

"His relationship with Anna?"

"Yes. I imagine you had your work cut out for you there."

The way she says it makes Matthew wonder if she thinks him up to the task.

Swallowing, he responds warily, "It was certainly a hectic few days when the story first broke, but I think it worked out as well as it could."

"It doesn't seem right though, does it? Members of Parliament getting involved with the help." In just one evening, Matthew has become well accustomed to Violet Crawley's famously disapproving tone.

"I think Bates and Anna are good together. They genuinely love each other and you can't always help who you fall in love with, can you?"

Violet is still unimpressed, "Love is a very _modern_ notion. In my day, we had to be more practical than that when making a choice of partner in life."

"Granny Violet has a point," Patrick interjects and Matthew finds he is unsurprised at his familiarity with the Crawley matriarch, "Love is one thing, but practicality does have its place if you want a relationship to be a success in the longer term. You need to have the same ideas about life, come from the same backgrounds..."

Patrick's stab – a very deliberate one Matthew is sure – finds its mark. He tries not to give him the satisfaction of letting it show.

Fortunately, he's not the only one who sees the comment for what it is.

"I never thought I'd see _you_ as being stuck in old ways Patrick; how disappointing." Mary makes a jab of her own. "Besides Granny, it was Matthew that saved the day with Bates and Anna in the end. He was fantastic."

"Yes, the media did seem to move on from their recriminations very quickly, didn't they?" Violet observes.

"Well Matthew far outclassed me on that one, I must admit," she says blithely.

"Hardly," he returns a small smile that she sends in his direction, "I let my romantic side get the better of me – fortunately, it turned out to be a good media strategy."

He's fairly sure that Mary will be the only one in the room to fully understand what he's talking about. He doesn't really care.

"That sounds a bit haphazard," Patrick says, seemingly trying to sound jovial through his scolding.

Matthew is firm, "I had a fair idea how it would work."

"Of course you did," Mary replies self-assuredly, "Don't let him fool you Granny, Matthew is very good at what he does."

"Well isn't that high praise?" Violet turns her questioning eyes on Mary.

"It's only as much as he deserves."

Mary looks confident, Violet looks (mildly) impressed, Patrick looks frustrated and Matthew decides that Mary might have been right about the dinner being a minefield all along.

.

"I must say," Robert turns to him quietly at one end of the table, "I'm rather glad you came."

"Thank you," Matthew wipes his mouth with his napkin, "And thank you for the invitation."

"You're most welcome. I can only hope all of this is not too much of a trial for you."

"I think I can manage."

"I have to admit, you've done rather well with Mama. She's taken quite an interest in you," Robert observes.

"I have?"

"Much better than most. She can be quite a formidable creature but she respects the ones that know how to stand up to her – that's why she and Mary get along as well as they do."

The insight makes him smile, "I noticed that."

"You're on friendly terms with Mary?" he then asks and Matthew feels he does a pretty good job of keeping a straight face.

"Of course. Mary is... lovely."

Robert laughs freely, seemingly amused for the first time since the dinner has begun, "It's not often you hear Mary described as lovely."

"What's so funny, Papa?" Edith asks.

"Matthew was just being very kind about Mary."

She seems surprised. "So you're good looking _and _unusually kind? My, haven't we struck it lucky with you?"

"I wouldn't say _unusually_..."

He's grateful for Robert who shakes his head at his daughter, "Leave the poor chap alone, Edith, you'll embarrass him. Stick to your long suffering husband..."

.

From behind her hand, she asks quietly, "You told my father kind things about me?"

Equally surreptitious, he responds quietly, "You told Edith I was _alright_ looking?"

"She mentioned that?"

"Yes."

"Well I also told her that you probably have a girlfriend."

"Probably?"

"I said probably. I meant definitely."

"It doesn't seemed to have helped."

They try not to laugh.

They don't quite manage.

.

She had wondered when Edith had asked for her help clearing the dinner plates if she (and of all people, her mother) might have had ulterior motives.

Now they've cornered her in the kitchen, she knows for sure.

"What on earth is going on with Patrick?" Edith asks, quite literally crowding into her space leaving Mary to unable to escape the room or her sister's questioning. Her mother, hovering by the door, seems equally interested in her answer.

"_Patrick_?"

"He's being all... flirty. Paying you special attention while you ignore him for Cousin Matthew."

"Isn't Patrick always like that?"

"And don't get me _started_ on Cousin Matthew."

Mary rolls her eyes, "Must you call him _cousin_ Matthew? Flirting with him as shamelessly as you are to try and get Patrick's attention is hardly cousinly behaviour."

"I'm not-!" She seems affronted, "That's not..."

"Really Mary..." her mother scolds.

"I've worked it out you know," Edith tells her cockily, "You told me about him on the phone that time; you were nice about him."

"So? He's a good person, even Papa agrees."

"And you think _I'm_ the one who's flirting with him to get to Patrick? It's so backward_._ I don't know what you have going on with Patrick right now but you should leave poor Matthew out of it."

For someone who's so convinced she's worked it out, Edith has scarcely before been quite so _wrong._

Mary laughs, "So that's it? I'm in some secret relationship with Patrick?"

"Yes."

"Well if that's what you want to believe..."

Far be it for Mary to actually set her on the right path.

"Oh please. You and Patrick need to sort yourselves out – there's _clearly_ something going on."

With this, she flounces from the kitchen.

Her mother is a little more gentle, "You know, you and Patrick have always been close – it would make sense if something were to have happened..."

Tiredly, though less forcefully than with her sister, Mary asks, "So you're with Edith then?"

Cora smiles, "I just want you to be happy."

"With Patrick?"

"He has been paying you special attention; your sister has a point."

"Honestly Mama, not a very good one."

"Doesn't she?" her mother squeezes her arm affectionately, "Patrick is good for you. He knows the family, knows this life, knows _you_..."

"You see, that's where I think you're wrong."

They're called back to gather more plates and Mary is glad to leave it there.

It worries her sometimes, just how wrong her family can be.

.

**Dessert**

.

"I was surprised when Robert asked me for the information about the family lineage," Violet informs them all primly, "But there you are. And to think we're related to a paid up member of the Britain First Party."

She enunciates the name with a put-on unfamiliarity and as always, some amount of disapproval.

"Well there's nothing wrong with that," it's Robert that jumps to his defence, "Not when they're in Coalition with our men in the Commons anyway. Isn't that right Mama?"

"I'm sure they're not bad people," she concedes, giving Matthew a humouring smile, "But how it must complicate things to have a Crawley who's one of _them_."

"Even a distantly related Crawley?" Matthew asks lightly.

"Oh I suppose," Violet reluctantly agrees, "The Crawley family tree is an interesting thing after all – we've seen marriages between cousins more closely related than you to most of us. You do what you must to preserve the name."

He tries not to be as obvious as to turn his head in Mary's direction, though he's not sure he succeeds.

.

Moving around the table, her father eventually come sit at her side during the final course.

He seems a little brighter than when he began the dinner and Mary is grateful his troubled mood hasn't followed him far. At least, that is, until he begins by remarking somewhat jovially, "Your mother said that there's something going on with you and Patrick."

She has to groan, "Not you as well."

"You have to admit, he looks to you rather fondly."

She scoffs, "Be that as it may, it's not like I look at him in at all the same way. These things take two, you know."

"But you always were a tough nut to crack; you don't give your affection easily," he says as though it explains it all, "You should go easier on him you know – and on Matthew. I hope it isn't true what your mother is saying about you sidling up to Matthew in order to earn yourself Patrick's envy."

"Of course it's not," she tells him with some amount of exasperation, careful to keep her voice down with their present company in mind.

"I hope that's the case. Matthew is such a nice young man – you should be good to him."

"You're rather taken with him, aren't you?" she smiles. Robert just nods and she finds herself telling him, "You don't need to worry about me with Matthew. We get along just fine."

"I suppose that seems true enough."

"Oh it is."

At this, she gets up from the table with a sly sort of smile and leaves her father to take her remark however he pleases. As she steps from the dining room out in to the hall, she wonders if she might see a slow smile of possibility spread across his face.

.

He gets a text a few minutes later and attempting to subtly check his phone under the table (probably not very successfully, but still) he reads: _Third room from the left in the hall. Make your excuses and come find me._

Well, that would explain where Mary went.

He gives it a minute – only long enough to try to avoid suspicion – before saying something about using the toilet and ducking out of the room.

With her instructions in mind, he finds her easily enough.

"Shut the door," she warns as soon as he steps inside.

"Are we hiding?" Matthew has to laugh.

"Something like that. My family are driving me spare," she groans and he extends an arm, allowing her to lean in against him as a sort of comfort.

When she sighs wearily, her face pressed into his shoulder, his hand traces down her back.

"What are they doing?"

It's her turn to laugh, "They're all so sure they have it right. They think they know what's going on and they couldn't be more wrong."

"What is it that they think?" he asks.

"Some grand idea about Patrick and I, but only because Patrick is, as always, acting a little like a petulant fool," she shrugs it off. "It's complete nonsense so I wouldn't pay them any mind."

"I won't," he reassures her warmly when she looks him over for any note of disapproval, "I _don't_."

His arm travels the same path down her back. She seems less weary with each gentle pass of his hand.

"I've been glad you're here," she says more softly than before, "You make it easier to face the madness."

"You make it easier to face _everything_."

It's terribly romantic of him, but in the moment, he's not too concerned at how pathetically love struck it all must sound.

With a genuine and bright smile that lights up her face in the way that Mary's smiles (her _real _smiles) sometimes do, he can't help but lean in to press his lips up against her own and he finds himself smiling through the kiss as her mouth opens to his. For a long moment, it's a reprieve from the madness they've left behind.

One of her hands comes up to brush over his cheek and play with the ends of his hair and only half aware of their surroundings and everything that _can't_ happen in a small sitting room down the hall from her family, he hauls her in closer.

"We should go back in," she breathes without moving her face away.

His forehead presses against hers when he breaks away just for a moment to say, "Not yet."

They're laughing to each other; stick locked in an embrace and in their own little world when the door opens.

They spring apart.

They don't make it in time.

.

She turns her head and thinks it's just about as bad as it can be when it's Patrick standing there in the doorway.

She knows, of course, that he's seen everything.

"Well that explains a lot," he says wryly, the ghost of a smirk forming on his features.

"Patrick..." she tries.

He laughs like it's funny, "Couldn't at least wait until you'd gone home?"

"Oh, hardly," Matthew begins with just the barest hint of hostility.

Before he can continue, Mary gives him the slightest shake of her head. _No_, not like this.

"You should go back through Matthew. Patrick and I will talk."

He doesn't speak, but his look is one that asks if she's sure.

"It's fine."

She gives him a nod, a confident smile that tries to reassure him of all the things that are just between them and dismisses him from the room.

Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, Mary starts big.

"We're together, if that's what you're wondering."

"But no one knows?"

"Not many," she shrugs, "That much is my doing, before you say anything."

"Oh really? Why?"

Evenly, she explains, "I come with inherent complications – I'm just trying to keep him from that for as long as possible."

"How noble of you," he says darkly, but Mary has known him long enough to tell he's joking. "How long?"

"Not that long. We had a bad start."

"When you weren't talking in Manchester?"

"And before that. It took me a little while to work out that I cared for him far more than I cared about some amount of _complication_. You know me, I can be bull-headed like that."

"So you _do_?" Patrick asks carefully, awkwardly, "...You care for him?"

Her reply is simple. "A great deal."

Her words have a visible effect on the way Patrick carries himself.

"I guess I knew. And I guess that's why I've been such a prick." He lets go a short laugh.

"We've always known each other Patrick; we've been stuck together for as long as I can remember." Ever since they were children, growing up together, they've been flung together by expectation and by habit and by some idea of the 'done thing' among their families and their type of people. Mary continues, "We're too alike."

It's why they've been so close for so long and yet, why they never have and never _will_ become anything more. Not anything that _means_ something.

"Yeah," he sighs, but with a wistful smile, "Two calculating and analytical souls, never saw anything wrong with a bit of self-interest. We always were so similar."

Far from what she'd expected, it's a nice moment.

"With Matthew... I hope you'll understand. In time."

"I understand now Mary, I just don't entirely want to accept it."

Feeling diplomatic, possibly even charitable, Mary gives him a fond look, "I'm not that person for you Patrick, believe me. You'll find someone _decent_, someone different from the way we are who'll balance you out and make you happy..."

"Is that what Crawley is for you?" he asks evenly.

"Among other things."

Patrick smirks at her, "He's made you a bit of a romantic."

"What?" she asks incredulously.

"Well not completely romantic – but romantic for _you_. It's not a bad thing."

She thinks on this for a moment. "As unlikely as it may sound coming from me, I think he does make me better as a person."

"God, that is an unlikely thought."

She laughs along with him briefly and thinks on how things have changed. It's all exactly the same and still entirely different.

"I hope you'll perhaps be a little kinder to him, now that you know."

"Someone has to keep him in line."

She gives him a knowing and disapproving look.

"I was kidding! Mostly, anyway. I can be nice, just so long as he's good to you."

"He's always good to me. More than I deserve."

"I don't think that's true. You, Mary Crawley, deserve nothing but the absolute best."

He takes both her hands in his, just for a moment, and gives her a soft smile.

"Will you keep our secret at least?"

"I think I can manage that."

"Thanks." She means it.

"C'mon, let's go back through."

He drops her hands and heads for the door, though Mary hangs back, taking a minute to compose herself.

It's so easy to forget, in light of their often tumultuous relationship, that Patrick has actually been one of the few constant people in her life. She's grateful, she finds, so incredibly grateful for his blessing.

For the first time in a very long time, she thinks, Patrick might see things the way she does.

Finally, they are on the same page.

.

**Post-dinner drinks**

.

By the time Mary makes her return, the family party has already moved to the front, more formal sitting room for even more drinks and (if you're Robert Crawley, at least) cigars.

She tries not to bring attention to herself as she slips into the room but at least two or three heads turn in her direction as soon as she steps over the door. She's most aware of Matthew's eyes on her and she gives him a light smile. He seems to understand all that she doesn't say out loud.

_It's okay. It's all really okay_.

Before she can turn away from his warm eyes, her grandmother is demanding her attention.

"Mary darling, come sit by me for a moment." She motions to a space on the sofa at the far end of the room.

Seeing little other option, Mary does as she's told.

"I thought we might have a little chat," her grandmother says, ducking her head and keeping her voice down.

"Oh? About what?" Mary finds herself surprised.

"Cousin Matthew."

There's a set to Violet's lips, a knowing confidence in the way she drops his name into the conversation that catches Mary and sends a sort of wariness itching down her spine.

Her grandmother always seems to know _everything._

"What about him?" she tries to sound even.

"You're in love with him."

Just like that. No hesitation, no artifice.

Her whole family – her mother and father and sister – can all get it _so_ wrong and yet it is Violet that cuts to the heart of the matter.

Mary knows better than to lie straight out, "What makes you think that?"

A shrug, "The way you look at him. The way _he_ looks at you. You have this way with each other."

Yes – no matter the deception, trust Violet Crawley to see through it _all_.

When Mary says nothing, she asks a little more forcefully, "Well? Am I right?"

"Granny, when were you _ever_ wrong?" she responds with some amount of amusement. Reluctant amusement, but all the same.

Her mouth forming a grave line, Violet asks seriously, "Can he keep up with you?"

She's sure she just had this conversation. "Of course he does Granny – I don't think I could ever love someone that couldn't."

"So it's _love_ is it?"

"Granny..." she scolds her lightly.

"Yes, well love is one thing dear, but have you thought of the various complexities involved? He's from a very different way of life – personally and politically."

"I thought we were past all that," Mary raises an eyebrow. "Casting someone out just because they're not of the same creed is terribly old world I would have thought."

"They did it that way in the old world for a reason, my dear," her grandmother looks to her knowingly. "I'm merely asking if you've though about these things and about how it's all going to work in the longer term."

"I think about it all the time," she tells her tiredly.

"And?"

"And I know it's not going to be easy. I know there are so many things I'll have to be careful of and even more I'll have to put right before we move forward but still none of it matters enough to make me want for anything else."

Mary is a little nervous as she says it, wondering what it is that she might need to do in order to convince her dear grandmother – the only person whose approval (perhaps aside from Carson's) she truly seeks.

She braces for the response, though she needn't have bothered.

"That's all I needed to hear," Violet announces much to Mary's surprise.

"It is?"

"So long as you've thought about these things and you're under no false illusion about the challenges ahead," her grandmother declares as practically as ever. "Besides, I rather like him."

"You _like_ him?"

"Why do you think I was terrorising the poor boy over dinner? That, of course, and to make sure he was worthy."

"And is he?"

Never one to be generous, Violet concedes with a wise smile, "Oh, he'll do."

From her grandmother, it's a glowing report.

.

With uneasiness about what had happened not too long before in the other room, Matthew experiences no small amount of alarm when Patrick crosses the room, part way through drinks, to find him.

Briefly, he glances to Mary – still locked in discussion with her grandmother – and decides he ought to suck it up because given how serious she looks, how her eyes are cast down and the way she's positioned herself, engrossed in the conversation, he has no hope of reassurance or rescue any time soon.

He'd been so sure it was sorted. She'd smiled, he'd nodded – it had seemed okay.

All but gritting his teeth, he turns to Patrick with a steely smile.

Apparently, he's more obvious than he thought.

"Oh don't worry Crawley, I'm not here to antagonise you."

"You're not?" Matthew allows scepticism to leak into his voice.

"I'm not. I talked to Mary and it's... fine."

"So... she told you?" he tries, feeling a little awkward.

"She said the two of you were together, yeah." Matthew can't help but look around the room at Patrick's words, trying to make sure that no one can overhear. "Don't worry, I'm not going to say anything to any of them."

"Uh, thanks."

"I just wanted to say that I won't be an arsehole about it, and I won't cause trouble."

"Right."

"But you should know – if you do anything to hurt her, then I might not be quite so nice."

This takes him by surprise, "I'm sorry?"

"I've known Mary a long time – I've maybe made things a bit harder in the past and I'm sorry for that, but she _matters_, okay? Be good to her."

"I will," Matthew is a little more confident, "You don't need to tell me any of that anyway."

"I didn't think so. It's still worth saying."

"I suppose you're right."

Matthew smiles and there's this moment of understanding – just briefly – that passes between them.

Maybe he can get along with Patrick.

"Anyway, I just wanted to say that much. I'll leave you be."

With a hesitant sort of understanding, Patrick ducks off to talk to Robert.

At least, Matthew decides, it all went better than he'd thought.

.

_**Dessert**_

**(That is, the type that comes after dessert.)**

.

Spent, but still somehow going, his mouth traces a trail up her bare sternum and Mary almost whimpers at the sensation it brings.

Her fingers ghost along his back and then up to his face as he comes to meet her and in a moment of amused bliss she announces, "Granny likes you."

"Mmm?"

"My grandmother is fond of you, I think you rather impressed her tonight."

He kisses her neck.

Not quite able to stop the breathy words that come, she tells him, "I suppose you should know that she _knows_."

He stops abruptly.

"What?"

Might as well come out with it.

"And Anna."

He edges himself back slightly, "And Patrick, apparently."

"We're not very good at the whole keeping it secret idea, are we?"

Matthew's face is still close in at her own and he can't seem to help the press of his lips against her own one more time.

Smiling against her skin, he asks, "Can we not talk about your best friend, your ex whatever-he-was and a former Prime Minister while we're in bed?"

"Gives a whole new slant on 'lie back and think of England' don't you think?"

She laughs freely.

"You're filthy."

"You love it."

.

The trouble with Carlisle's comments leading up to the dinner had been that they lacked just the right amount of subtlety to set Mary on edge.

His words don't hang over her in the same way that pointed remarks about one Kemal Pamuk once did but there are moments where she finds herself a little uneasy and wondering quite what it all might mean.

But as it turns out, as the evening of the following Monday creeps on, she doesn't have to wait all that long to find out.

"Mary."

He appears in her doorway unannounced and uninvited, as he too often does with an insincere sort of smile plastered to his face.

"Richard," she greets in return, civilly at least. "I was just heading out for the night, is it anything that can wait for tomorrow?"

"Not really."

"Oh?"

She can't tell if there's something he's genuinely concerned about or if he's just trying to cause trouble.

Without Mary asking him in, Carlisle steps into the room, pushing the door over a little further as he moves.

"You see, I'm rather concerned about Matthew Crawley."

"What?" Her response comes much faster this time. "_Why_?"

She has an idea, but it's not one she cares to voice aloud.

How does he (how _could_ he) know?

Carlisle's lips set into a firm line, "It's all this business with Bates and Miss Smith – something about it doesn't sit right with me."

"Why ever not? It all worked out perfectly, didn't it?"

"You should be glad it did," he eyes her. "But Crawley... he's been given far too much leeway. He ignored our media strategy, arranged an interview that we hadn't approved, had _no_ knowledge of until it aired-"

She cuts him off, "An an interview that saved our skin!"

"He shouldn't have been able to take it that far," Carlisle shoots back coldly.

"So what are you saying? That we don't trust Cabinet Ministers and their staff to make their own media arrangements anymore? Because that's plainly ridiculous."

"This was a matter to be handled from our office, the _Prime Minister's_ office. We had a plan which was _ignored_."

Feeling a frustrated anger mounting within her, Mary rises in her place. "What is this really about Richard?"

He stalks around her desk, making an unavoidable show of power as he closes into her space on the other side.

"It's about power, Mary. It's about who's really in control."

He steps closer still.

"No one's questioning your power, Richard." She tries to step back.

"Aren't they?" he asks with notes of menace, "Because I think you might be. I think you've been telling me lies, Mary Crawley."

"What on earth are you-"

But it's too late.

With his hands on her hips, his presses his form along the length of her own, turning her forcefully to face out over her desk while his hands caress along her sides. The front of his body grinds into her back and he murmurs a sort of approval.

He likes this.

He likes the power.

He likes _her._

"I don't like it when you lie to me," he says more softly.

She doesn't give him the pleasure of pushing back against him. Instead she stands stock still and bites out, "I don't know what you're talking about."

His hips inch against her own. "We're talking about Matthew Crawley."

Something inside of her is screaming to throw him off, but she finds herself frozen into place by horrified surprise and by fear.

Her heart thunders as his mouth comes down to her neck, brushing along her exposed skin lightly.

Her office door swings open.

_Matthew_.

.


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

.

_As a girl of eighteen years, Mary Crawley is not one to cause trouble for trouble's sake. It's not that she's inherently _good _– the type of person always trying to follow rules and impress her elders and superiors – and more that she doesn't see the point in needlessly diminishing others' opinions of her, needlessly creating enemies when allies can be so much more valuable._

_Yes; aged eighteen, Mary Crawley has her own very firm ideas of right and wrong, of proper and improper and she abides by them carefully. _

_Of course, none of this explains why she has to call Charles Carson at three o'clock one Sunday morning to collect her from the well-populated home of some sixth form idiot whose parents were even more idiotic to leave him with an empty property just waiting to host a party over the Easter break from school. As police cars swarm, she hovers primly by the end of the road, watching carefully for a familiar Audi and sliding smoothly into the front seat when it arrives._

"_What on earth is all this?"Carson asks, first of all._

"_Things got out of hand."_

"_I can see that." He quickly looks her over, a note of concern in his voice as he asks, "You're quite alright though?"_

"_I'm fine."_

"_Why were you here? I would have expected Sybil, perhaps, but not you."_

_Her sister Sybil on the other hand, just fourteen, is the definition of _trouble_. Parties, alcohol, boys – you name it, she'd wreaked havoc on her family by trying it._

"_I was lead to believe it was all going to be much smaller. I certainly didn't sign on for all this..." _

_She waves a hand to the melee. _

"_No, I imagine you didn't," Carson smiles softly. "You did the right thing by calling me."_

"_Thanks for coming," she tells him a little more warmly._

"_You're very welcome. You know if you're ever in trouble..."_

_He trails off. He's not a sentimental man and his meaning is clear enough to leave it there._

"_I know."_

_Sybil is waiting up for her when she gets in. Some other idiot called Larry has already texted her about the now apparently 'famous' party and she desperately wants a firsthand account. Mary does not oblige._

_Having also recognised the familiar lines of Carson's Audi, Sybil prods at her, "You're lucky you know. Not everyone has someone to call in the middle of the night to come rescue them."_

"_It wasn't a rescue," she informs her shortly. _

"_All the same, Carson is good to you."_

"_I suppose," Mary shrugs. "He's always been... kind. Ever since he's worked for Papa he's talked to me like I'm a normal human being – not something that's easily come by I might add."_

_But Sybil doesn't quite understand. Not at fourteen and not with a temperament much less serious than Mary's ever was._

_Still, she nods like she agrees and allows Mary to curl up into her bed with her when she begins to drift some time after four and can't be bothered going all the way back to her own room. Sybil, for all her faults, is a darling – a sweet little thing who, like Carson, is one of few to actually understand Mary beyond the icy exterior that's been a part of her as long as she can remember._

_Curled with her sister, she sleeps. And in the morning, neither she, nor Sybil, nor even Carson will tell her parents what had transpired that night._

_._

He realises right away.

Not more than a second passes before Matthew's face goes stony and a dark sort of fury leaks into his expression. She can see it even from across the room.

His appearance gives her the jolt she needs and forcefully, she pushes Carlisle away.

"What the fuck are you doing, Richard?"

Because she's angry too. She's furious.

Somehow, in the face of it all, Carlisle still has the cheek to be confident, "Crawley, how nice of you to come by. We were just talking about you."

"Were you?" He looks... shell shocked. Furious and shell shocked – there are no other words for it.

For good measure, Mary pushes Carlisle further away and steps around to the front of her desk. "I think you need to _leave_, Richard, before I do anything rash."

"Well we wouldn't want that, would we?" he taunts.

She's supposed to be careful. She's supposed to remember all the power he lords over her so gladly and all the lengths she's gone to over the years to stay on his good side.

Instead, she can only relish in this chance to express her distaste for him more... physically. And with more force than is strictly necessary.

For a moment, she's occupied by the satisfying sight of Carlisle still trying to find stable footing but when she looks up to watch as he bundles himself out the door, she realises Matthew too is gone.

.

_For such a very long time, the Charles Carson's office within the Downton Group's headquarters has been a sort of sanctuary for Mary. She can remember so many occasions where they've been in here conspiring, where they've talked about the ways of the world or when he's wisely given her advice on any one of a number of the things – parents and their expectations, her path after university, even Downton._

_But not today._

"_You're _leaving_?" She has to ask again to be sure._

"_The job," he admits, "Not... anything else."_

_Not _her, _she understands – they always did read each other quite well._

_Carson has never been good with more delicate emotions._

"_But... why?"_

"_There are a number of reasons," he eventually struggles out. _

"_Like?" she asks archly, "Come on Carson, I can usually trust _you_ to tell me these things."_

"_Well I suppose it's all come about because of this Mr Pamuk."_

"_The new investor floating around?"_

"_...Yes."_

_She gives him a look that begs more information._

"_He's bad news, Mary. Everything I can find about him says he's bad news but no one around here cares to listen to me."_

"_That's just what they're like," she agrees with frustration. _

_It's almost exactly why she struggles now with this idea that as she stares down her last few months of study, she might be expected to work here for the rest of her days. _

_She's grown up here, worked at her father's insistence over summers and is generally expected to assume some high flying role with the company the minute she graduates. Among the Crawley sisters, she's the practical one, driven and intelligent, and for all intents and purposes she's the heir to her father's legacy of which Downton forms the biggest part. _

_Except, Mary's beginning to wonder if she might have other ideas._

"_Even the Britannia News Group are sniffing around this chap," Carson brings her back to the matter at hand, clearly concerned, "If Richard Carlisle thinks Kemal Pamuk is a risky piece of work, then I don't understand why everyone at Downton shouldn't at least be a little concerned."_

"_I suppose that's what happens when you have a few billion pounds at your disposal."_

"_And what happens when you've worked here for twenty years? What then?"_

_Mary knows how this goes, "It doesn't matter and they don't listen. They never listen."_

"_Exactly," Carson looks a little lost. _

"_So where are you going?" she asks eventually._

"_Well," he begins, a little less confident than before, "You might think it... a little unusual, maybe, but there's a by-election coming up-"_

"_Finchley and Golders Green?"_

"_That's the one."_

_He leaves it there._

"_...You're running?"_

"_Yes."_

"_For Parliament?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Jesus, Carson." Mary can't deny her surprise. "_Politics_?"_

"_There's no need to sound so alarmed," he says lightly._

"_I'm not _alarmed_," she assures him readily, "I mean, I've grown up with politics, I _like_ politics – a lot actually – but I wouldn't have thought you the type Carson. You're too... _good_."_

"_I'm good to _you_, milady," he uses his childhood endearment for her fondly, "I can be a tiger when I want to be, don't you worry."_

"_I suppose..." she lets herself think about it for a moment. "But why politics?"_

_Carson sighs, "Because I think I can show them a thing or two. Because I might actually be able to do some good there, instead of..."_

_Mary finishes for him, "...instead of toiling away here where after twenty years, they still don't pay you any heed when it might actually matter."_

"_Precisely."_

"_Then I suppose I can accept your decision."_

"_I'm glad," he smiles warmly. _

_He seems to struggle a little as he goes to say something more._

"_What is it?" Mary prompts._

"_It's just... I thought you might like to come with me."_

"_Come with you?"_

_He explains, "Well I know you're about to finish with your studies. I know how you've struggled with what to do and whether to continue here at Downton more permanently and I just thought... Well, I thought you might be the right person to run my campaign. And my office, if I actually _win_."_

"_Oh you'll win," she gives him a tentative grin._

"_Will you help me?"_

_She hedges, "I'll have to think on it some-"_

_He cuts in before she has the chance to finish, "Of course."_

_With a steadying smile, she tells him, "But I'll admit, it sounds like it might be just what I need..."_

_._

With them both gone, Mary finds herself standing, frozen to the spot in her office for the longest time.

It's an odd sort of feeling – she's worried and not, angry and not, confused and just... _not_.

Because once again, Richard Carlisle has crossed the line and once again he has made threats that she ought to take seriously but instead she's rooted in her place at the thought of what Matthew might have seen, what he might think...

A few more moments pass before something inside her seems to click and she makes her way back behind her desk. Bringing her computer to life with a shake of the mouse, she methodically finishes with what she was doing before Carlisle appeared and then closes off all the windows.

Making a habitual last sweep around the room, she then locks the door and in the darkened outer office, heaves a sigh.

It's there in the dark that urgency strikes her.

Utter, burning _need._

Matthew.

She's got to set this right.

It takes her a minute – trying to work out where he might have gone, what on earth he might be thinking and what she's supposed to do now – but as she almost bounces on the spot, needing to move (somewhere, anywhere), a plan does eventually come.

On her phone, she dials a number. London Metropolitan Police Services' Protection Command.

Specialist security to the Prime Minister.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end is quick to answer.

"Lang? It's Mary Crawley." She doesn't bother with pleasantries, "I was hoping you could do something for me. You can say no – it's probably illegal – but if I gave you a mobile number, could you trace me the phone's location?"

Not even a pause, "Of course ma'am."

It pays to be nice to security.

With a flicker of a smile – her first since the whole mess played out – she reads out Matthew's number.

After a flurry of keystrokes, Lang is quick to find her the address she needs.

Surprised, she repeats it back to him.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite certain ma'am."

It's her flat.

.

It seems a little familiar to find him there on her doorstep.

They've done this before.

"You should have called," she says, with little idea what else to say. Matthew never actually _told_ her she could find him here, after all.

He looks at her blankly.

Right then.

He allows her past, stepping out of the way lest she brush by him as she goes to open the door. Once it's unlocked, he follows her inside dutifully but still no words are exchanged.

As the seconds creep on, they stand together but apart, the silence around them heavy.

Knowing one of them has to blink eventually, it is Mary that finally tries, "...I don't know what you think is going on."

Matthew's smile seems hollow – bitter even, "I suppose that works, seeing as I don't know what's going on."

"Carlisle _knows_ Matthew – I don't know _how_, but he knows that there's something going on between you and I and he's lashing out."

"Is he?"

"Yes, he is. He has some weird ideas in his head and now he's acting out of jealousy," she tells him assuredly. "You know what he's like – he takes what he wants and he doesn't usually bother to ask."

"So he didn't... ask?"

His toneless question almost gives Mary hope. Almost.

Not quite.

Her response is soft, "Of course he didn't ask."

It's an acceptance, "Right."

Even with this much having passed between them, the awkwardness and the silence still thick and Matthew begins to pace the floor.

"It's happened before?"

He seems to _know_.

"Yes."

"Have you _said_ anything?"

"No."

He stops. "It's sexual harassment, Mary."

"I know that."

"Then _why_?" Matthew's question is forceful – pointed and angry.

"Because I... _can't_."

Still angry, "You can't what?"

"I can't tell anyone!" she shouts back, "I can't give him any reason that might turn him against me."

"_Why_, Mary? What's he got on you?" he asks darkly.

She hesitates.

Because it all comes back to _secrets_.

Terrible secrets. Secrets that are unravelling before her eyes, unravelling _her_...

As erratic as it seems, all she can think in the moment is that she doesn't want Matthew to unravel too.

He doesn't abide by her silence, prompting, "Mary..."

"We can't do this."

"No. We can't do _this_," the words are firm. Eyeing her seriously, Matthew presses, "We can't. We've had our time of running away and of not talking about things and none of it ever worked out well. I came _here – _I came to your flat instead of disappearing and instead of avoiding it all because we _can't do this anymore_."

The vehement response crescendos to all but a yell as he articulates the final sentiment.

Her response is fast and Mary too finds herself shouting, "It's not that simple!"

"It is! It is because I love you and because if we have any chance of making this work this all needs to stop right now."

It is because he loves her.

He _loves_ her.

Mary can feel the moment she crumples, folding in on herself artlessly.

She scrubs at her face.

And then, in a small, tinny voice, "I love you too."

Matthew steps forward.

He takes her hands in his.

Then, more gently, he tries again, "Mary..."

She slumps into his body, letting him carry her weight.

It's the only chance they have of making this work.

"It's my father," she begins. "It's my father, and there are so many things that went wrong, I don't even know where to start..."

.

_The next time she hears the name it's amidst a fog – Kemal Pamuk, son of a prominent Turkish military figure tipped to be the next Ambassador to Britain and Downton's newest hotshot investor._

_But it doesn't matter because Sybil is dead._

_Her father is in a very... odd place. On the days where he's even capable of saying a word, he seems to be enamoured with this idea of a new face around the company to liven things up; he speaks to Mary of him more than once though rarely do the details stay with her more than a few minutes._

_And then comes the day when she's to meet him._

_It's been a regular thing, these visits back to the Big House – it's all happened since Sybil's been gone and since the whole family has taken to leaning in on each other as they weather the storm._

_At least, some of them have been leaning. Others (namely, one, other or both of her parents) have been avoiding each other and diverting their attentions to other, much more trivial things._

_It is on one of these visits that Mary encounters Pamuk for the first time._

"_Mary, this is Kemal Pamuk," her father tells her grandly, the well put-together gentleman at his side extending a hand._

"_Kemal, this is my eldest daughter Mary."_

"_Ah yes, Mary – I feel like I already know you so well," he tells her smoothly._

"_Oh?"_

"_Your father didn't tell you?" Pamuk turns to him._

_Robert arranges a smile on his face and tells her, "Oh yes, Mr Pamuk here is staying in your old room, Mary. He'll be in and out of London for a while and I could hardly see him stuck in some soulless hotel the whole time or to have to go to the trouble of finding somewhere to rent. Your mother is renovating the guest rooms, Lord knows why, so I thought he might be most comfortable in there for a while. You don't mind, do you?"_

_She doesn't point out that the reason her mother is so focussed on home improvement projects is so that she has reason enough to stay out of her husband's way. _

"_Oh my," Mary smiles an insincere smile she knows will look sincere, "I hope they've tidied it up a little for you."_

"_It's quite fine. I like the... _personal _touches," he tells her smoothly. "Had I known you were even more beautiful in person as you are in your photographs, I would have pressed to meet you much sooner."_

_She just gives him a tight smile._

"_Oh, look at you two getting along so well – I'm so glad to see it. I do hope you'll be staying for dinner Mary..."_

_._

"My father wasn't the only one who knew that Pamuk rather liked me," Mary tells him, "I think I told you some about it all before."

Matthew nods, "In Newcastle, yes. I remember what you said."

"Then you know how it starts," she says tiredly.

And here she is, the point of no return.

Reminding herself of his words (he _loves_ her, this is the only way), she continues, "After Sybil, my father dropped the ball and there were some really bad decisions made at Downton before and during the financial crisis."

This much he knows. This much is easy.

The next part is not.

"Downton was actually insolvent for months – nearly a year. It should have gone under."

He knows the right question to ask, "So why didn't it?"

Mary sighs, "Because between my father, a handful of his cronies, Pamuk and unwittingly, _me_, things were covered up and the company propped up long enough that it survived."

"That was what they had you doing when they sent you into those meetings?" Matthew asks, a familiar horror colouring his words.

"Yes. I didn't know it at the time though – they weren't really _meetings_ after all and it was mostly just numbers on a page," she replies with undoubted regret.

It's no easy thing to explain, she finds, the twisting chain of events not something she's ever before had to lay bare for another person.

She tries to explain more clearly, "Pamuk was, and still is, I suppose, little bit unusual – delicate even. He's well off and powerful but he needs some babying; even in a diplomatic capacity, too often he's followed around by some toff from the embassy making sure that, heaven forbid, he's not unhappy or inconvenienced in any way."

"He sounds like a great bloke to deal with," Matthew chimes in wryly.

"Oh he's charming enough, don't get me wrong," Mary says dryly. She then adds, "Pamuk liked my father as my father liked him, but he didn't much get along with some of the higher up business faces within Downton. This was why, even though I worked for Carson at this point, they kept trotting me out every time my father lost his place."

Matthew's words are knowing, a touch sarcastic, "Because of course, they didn't think twice about taking advantage of you, even in more... difficult circumstances."

"Difficult circumstances or not, they thought I as their best hope and while I can assure you I had no idea quite what I was getting involved in, I kept things moving along for Downton when the company seemed to need it most. It got to the point that cash flow was day to day and Pamuk was providing most of that cash."

"Christ. And none of this ever got out?"

She shakes her head wordlessly and lets the silence hang.

Her voice is small again as she warns him, "If I tell you this next part, you'll be obliged to report it, report _me_ – particularly given your position."

"Full disclosure, Mary. I'm not going to report you anywhere."

"Then you might be breaking the law," she tells him in a flat, almost small voice. This is what she has feared for so long. "At the very least you'll be implicit in it all. It could ruin you, your career."

"It might," Matthew shrugs, "But it's my choice to make."

"I just don't want..." She struggles.

"Well do you want _this_? Us?" he asks gently, though his words are still thick with meaning, "Because I think that's the choice here."

Her voice is raised, "Can't you see it's an impossible choice? I care for you Matthew, I do, and though it's why I want to make this work, it's also why I don't want to put you in this position."

For so many reasons, obvious and not, she's _angry._

His sigh is ragged and after a pensive moment he points out, "I'm too far gone. No matter what happens from here I'm going to be caught up in this because of the way I feel about you, because if they can find out whatever _this_ is they can probably find out we've been involved and I'll be tied to it anyway. Because I'm a Crawley, just like the rest of the people caught up in this mess and that'll send trouble after me no matter what I know or don't know."

He takes a breath.

The problem is, he has a point.

"So you're saying I've damned you regardless?" Though serious, there's a dark humour to her suggestion.

"I am."

For a while, Mary has to consider this.

It takes her some time but eventually she begins again, "You were asking if Downton's cash flow problems ever got out and the answer is no. But it's not just about the books – yes, they made false reports and hid it from the regulator and yes, that's illegal enough as it is, but they couldn't let any of it out because there was... more to it than that."

"More?"

"I missed things... just allowed it to happen because I was too distracted after Sybil and because I don't think I really wanted to know. It's my biggest mistake and my worst regret."

"Surely there's something you can do? Surely there's a way back from it all?"

She looks away from him for a long moment, letting the silence of the flat wash over her as she makes her decision.

"I'll tell you what really happened. I just hope you don't despise me by the time I'm done."

.

_Mary is hardly surprised to receive a call from James Gordon – one of Downton's board members – later on a Friday night. It's been one of those weeks since Sybil's been gone where her father has been hard to pin down and Mary has already spent some time with Kemal Pamuk in his place; she assumes as she agrees to come to the house that it's something she could do to help him and hurries from her flat to the family home._

_When she gets there, she is quick to find that there might be a little more to it than just her father._

"_I'm sorry to have called you," James apologises profusely, "It's just... we had some trouble. I didn't know what else to do."_

_As Patrick's father and a dear friend of the Crawley family, Mary has known this man all her life and it's not often that she sees him shaken in this way._

"_What happened?"_

"_It's Mr Pamuk. We were supposed to be having a... meeting with him, to discuss some business matters but ever since he returned to the house he's been acting erratically."_

"_Erratically, how?"_

"_Unfocussed... very unlike himself," James struggles to explain. "Things escalated and he and Robert had a rather... heated argument. I thought you might be the one to talk them both down; there is a transaction that we were hoping would be finalised tonight – it's terribly urgent and there are details yet to be discussed."_

_His suggestion itches at her._

_They've never really given her much to work with when it's come to all this business with Downton – for a long time, and while she thought she'd been doing the right thing by a grieving father, she'd been happy enough for this to be the case but as it drags on now, weeks later, with all the mystery surrounding cryptic instructions for where unspecified sums of money should be wired and even more dubious looking company accounts being passed back and forth, changing as they go, Mary is beginning to feel... concerned._

_She never thought that Downton could be reduced to this and she has scarcely let herself dwell on what it all might mean._

_Not now – not yet – anyway._

"_Where are they?" she asks eventually._

"_Pamuk has gone to his room... _Your_ room, I suppose."_

_Mary just rolls her eyes._

_James continues, "I thought I might try talking to Robert first of all if perhaps you were willing to try to smooth things over with Mr Pamuk"_

_She doesn't imagine she has much choice so she just nods her head and goes for the stairs without a word. _

_At the top, two doors along, she knocks. _

_No response._

_Another knock, "Kemal? It's Mary. Can I have a word?"_

_Still nothing._

_She looks at her watch; it's not yet gone nine and the room (_her _room) seems so quiet she wonders if anyone is actually inside. Finding it all a little silly, she makes the decision and goes to open the door._

_It's _her_ room after all._

_And then she sees it._

_The way he's sprawled is unnatural, his arms are limp and there's a blueish hue to his lips that all make him seem devoid of life._

_It's an unsettling sight._

_It takes a few beats of a heart longer for it to catch up to her. Something here is _wrong_._

_She lets out a cry._

_Loudly._

_Her first thought, "I think... I think he's dead!" _

_She snaps into motion at the sound of thundering feet on the stairs. She needs to do something useful. _

_Her father and James appear in the doorway just as she approaches Pamuk's still motionless form. Shakily, Mary's hand goes out and she can hear their gasps as her fingers brush his carotid tentatively._

"_Oh dear Lord," James croaks out. _

"_Is he...?" Robert tries hoarsely._

_She desperately tries to remember what she was taught at some Parliamentary briefing about first aid in emergencies some months before. Listening for breath sounds, she attempts to arrange her hands in the right position for CPR._

"_I- I don't know," she only just manages a moment later. "I might have a pulse. Someone call an ambulance!"_

_It's James that goes for the phone in his pocket, thumping out the number with unsteady fingers. Unmoved by Mary's suggestion, her father remains in his place, standing stock-still, taking in the room._

"_Don't just stand there!"she urges him frantically_

_He still doesn't react and time slips on as Mary attempts to count her compressions and to temper her own breathing as adrenaline races. _

_This is insane. There is a dead Turk in her bed and this is _insane.

_She doesn't look up as Robert asks coolly, "It's... drugs, isn't it?" _

"_Does it matter?"_

"_He was acting so unusually when he got back to the house earlier. I should have known it was drugs. It has to be drugs." He's talking almost to himself._

_Mary just keeps counting._

One, two, three, four, five...

"_This is bad," Robert again breaks the silence, his words low and foreboding_

"_You don't think I know that? There's a man dead in my bed!"_

One, two, three, four, five...

"_I need- I need to make a call," he eventually manages, fumbling for her phone._

_Mary tries to tune out his words but can't help but overhearing as he paces by the side of the bed._

"_Detective Inspector Crowborough, it's Robert Crawley. I think I need your help..."_

_._

_They'd been lucky that night – the ambulance had shown up quickly and the paramedics had loaded Pamuk into the back of it without delay, setting to work with machines and probes and syringes. Mary had only been able to watch as the doors had swung shut, her father at her side saying something absently about following it to the hospital._

_She'd gone with him when he'd left, out of a sense of obligation more than anything, and the trip in his car had been a tense and silent one. At the hospital they've now waited what seemed like hours, hovering in a sparse waiting room being told again and again that a doctor will come by to give them an update as soon as there is anything to know._

_The doctor never seems to come._

_In the time they've waited, Robert's phone has gone off more than once and each time he's ducked into the hall, keeping his voice down enough that Mary has only been able to hear bits and pieces of urgent conversations._

_When he returns the second or third time (it all seems to be a jumble in her brain) she finally breaks and asks, "Who have you been speaking to?"_

"_I'm sorry?"_

"_On the phone. You've been receiving a lot of calls."_

"_It's nothing."_

"_That's funny," she replies dryly, "Because I thought it might have been that police officer you called from the house."_

"_Don't worry yourself with it," he again dismisses._

_Mary's response is sharp, "Of course I'm worried! We're at a _hospital_ Papa, Mr Pamuk is, at the very least, in a critical condition save only for the miracles of modern medicine and you took a decidedly funny turn earlier this evening when you started talking about drugs. Now you've appear to have enlisted the help of some high-ranking policeman who's called several times since we've been here and you don't seem all that keen to share with me the details. Yes, _of course_ I'm worried."_

_As she finishes, she levels him with an imploring look. Her father just looks uncomfortable._

"_What do you know about the drugs?" she tries again, her words more even._

"_Pamuk..." he trails off, "I suppose I was... somewhat aware that Pamuk was involved with that sort of thing." _

"_With drugs?"_

_Still decidedly uncomfortable, "Yes."_

_Mary makes no effort to hide her disgust, "How? Why get involved with him then?"_

_There is a long pause._

_And like that she gets it._

_The truth of it gets her like a knife in the gut._

"_That was where the money was coming from, wasn't it? The money for Downton?"_

_He just nods – a single solitary nod._

_Piece by piece, the details fall into place._

"_That's why all the secrecy? That's why all of it was always so secret, so informal?"_

_Robert's response seems to small, "Yes. I never knew for certain that that was how he'd made his money, but I had my suspicions."_

"_But... why?" she asks sadly._

"_Downton is in trouble Mary, it desperately needs the cash that Pamuk has been willing to provide."_

"_Everyone's in trouble Papa, it's a financial crisis! That doesn't mean you need to resort to _this!_"_

_His expression is stony, "It's not just your usual kind of trouble, Mary. Without Pamuk..."_

_Mary can see that he is struggling._

"_Without him, what?"_

"_Without Pamuk, we've been insolvent for months."_

_And there it is._

"_Does the regulator...?" Her question trails off._

"_Of course the regulator doesn't know," her father tells her bitterly._

"_So you've been doctoring the books? For that _and_ to hide the fact you're laundering Mr Pamuk's drug money into the country?"_

_There's a brief satisfaction to laying it all out so plainly. The satisfaction dissolves the moment she realises just how _bad_ this has become._

_Just how involved she is, whether she has known or not._

_Her father at least has the decency to look ashamed and he fails to find a way to respond to her once again._

"_So, your police officer friend – how does he figure into it all?"_

"_He's a trusted friend," Robert tells her smoothly, "He will... help to make sure that we, as well as Mr Pamuk, don't run into too much trouble with the law, given what's happened tonight."_

"_Christ, you've bought off the police as well?"_

"_Oh please Mary, don't be dramatic," he scolds, "It's a reality of our situation."_

"_Is it?" she asks hotly, "And I suppose he helps you with your little business to-dos as well – lets you know when the fraud squad is circling, that sort of thing."_

_The contrite look on his face tells her she's not too far from the truth._

_Oh god._

"_I'm in this too, you know. All those times your cronies sent me off to meet with Pamuk, they've made me part of _your_ mess. It could ruin me."_

"_I- I didn't know," he struggles out._

"_Didn't know what?"_

"_That they'd brought you into it. Not at first."_

"_That's just as bad!" she's furious, "I've _made_ something for myself Papa, Carson is doing well and I'm doing well with him – they say he could be the next Prime Minister. I can't be the person running his campaign if I've been tied up with you and your corporate fraud! I can't do it if I'm chased around by stories of drugs and money laundering and dead Turks!"_

_Riled by her words and confronted by the situation, Robert shoots back, "It won't happen like that. This won't get out."_

"_Oh, it won't?"_

"_I'll make sure of it."_

_She heaves a sigh, suddenly feeling so very, very tired._

_It's all such a mess._

_She can't do this anymore._

_Pacing slowly in the direction of the door, Mary gives her father a sad and exhausted look. "You disgust me. This whole situation... it's disgusting."_

_She leaves him with his blank look and his scandal and she goes home alone._

_._

_The following night, Mary sits in her stationary car, her hands twisting around the steering wheel. _

_She just needs to get out of this car. She just needs to knock on Carson's door._

_She just needs to talk about everything that has happened over the last twenty four hours with _someone_._

_But she can't move._

_He'd understand, she knows; telling him would let her let go of it all a little bit, he'd make her feel better about allowing herself to be dragged into it all and she knows that no matter the price, he would be willing to do anything she might need to make things right._

_The problem is, she doesn't want him to pay that price._

_She remembers her words from the night before – having risen quickly through the ranks of the opposition's front benches and given the malaise that has befallen the current party leader, people are genuinely beginning to believe that Carson could be the next Leader of the Opposition and after that, possibly even Prime Minister. Mary is proud of him – proud of herself, even – for making this possible, she _believes_ in Carson and in all that he stands for. _

_If she tells him, Carson becomes part of it all – no matter how careful she tries to be. It might not come out today or this week or even this year, but one day he could well become the Prime Minster that helped conceal one of Britain's greatest corporate frauds, embroiled in a story of money and drugs and scandal. _

_It would destroy him, politically speaking – his chances, his legacy, everything that he has the power to achieve. _

_She can't let that happen and she can't get out of the car._

_She sits like this for what feels like a long time – part of her hopes that some bolt of divine inspiration will strike her and she'll know what it is she's supposed to do from here, the rest of her just feels numb. She's heard from messages that have gone unreturned that Pamuk has woken in the hospital and that his prognosis has improved significantly but she can't quite bring herself to feel relieved at this news, this numbness hanging over her like a pall. _

_She also can't be glad that, true to her father's word, there's been no talk on an investigation, no awkward questions to answer and only the odd line in a paper or two about any sort of incident – unusual given Pamuk's profile, as well as Robert Crawley's as Downton Chairman and a popular figure within the House of Lords._

_It's as though there are to be no consequences. Despite all that she saw that night and despite all that she knows now, the world will go on as normal._

_It's the inescapable feeling that this is _wrong_ somehow that has her sitting outside Carson's home now, late on a Saturday night. _

_She needs to tell someone._

_But she can't._

_With a shaky sigh, she starts the engine and drives away._

.

For a long moment, Matthew sits in silence.

She tries to explain, "You have to see, this is the kind of thing that ruins careers. Especially in politics. If the authorities ever found out, or the press..."

The words trail off.

Eventually, carefully, he asks, "...So Carson doesn't know?"

"I think he must have an idea," Mary explains evenly, "But I've never told him and he knows better than to have ever asked."

"And Pamuk is...?"

"He's alive and well if that's what you're asking. You saw him that night."

"I did."

And then, again, silence.

"I wish you would say something," Mary tells him quietly, after even more time has passed.

He looks up at her, his expression unreadable. "...You've never told anyone else?"

"I couldn't. You must know that I couldn't. You and Carson were the only two I could ever really have _wanted _to know and I decided long ago that it wouldn't be fair."

"I do... understand. I think," he replies shakily, "It's a lot."

"I wouldn't blame you if you despised me for it."

Matthew offers her his first tentative smile since she began her explanation. His words are thick with meaning, "I never would – I never _could_ – despise you."

Somewhere amidst what has been an emotionally straining night, his words warm her through.

For a while, she doesn't know what to say, instead just edging closer.

His hand covers her own.

"I'm _sorry_," she tries, for lack of anything else to say.

"I wish you wouldn't be."

"Why?"

"Because this isn't your fault!" he shoots back forcefully – his anger not directed at her, but obvious all the same. "You didn't ask for this. They made you a part of it."

Mary is about to respond to this when he cuts her off, "And before you say anything, I made _myself_ a part of it – I asked, I pushed."

She just glares at him as though she's not impressed and she doesn't agree, but there's some kindness behind it.

His question is careful and genuine when he asks after a beat, "Did you ever think about reporting them? Surely you could have made some kind of deal that would have shielded you from the worst of it?"

Despite what he's asking, it doesn't feel like an accusation.

"It's not as easy as that. First of all, he's my father. I thought about it, especially when it all came out at first – I was _angry_ then – but still he's my father and he made some mistakes in what was a very dark time. We all got things wrong after Sybil died and that made it all the more difficult to betray him so completely."

"And second?" Matthew picks up on the part she leaves unspoken.

Mary's response is dry, "And second, Richard Carlisle got himself involved."

.

_Before Charles Carson was Prime Minister and before Mary Crawley was his Deputy Chief of Staff – before they ran a country together from the prestigious halls of Downing Street – both worked from a slightly more ordinary office inside the Palace of Westminster._

_The first time Mary ever meets Richard Carlisle is inside this office. _

_He appears as a Wednesday evening draws in, Carson is in the chamber and she is alone in the office, save only for her work and quiet chatter from a television. As will become the norm, Carlisle doesn't knock, instead sliding through the door confidently and looming over her desk._

"_I'm sorry, can I help you?" she asks, letting a small amount of her annoyance leak into her greeting._

_She looks up and recognises him right away. Though he is a man known more for being behind the nation's biggest newspaper's and media outlets instead of being on the front of them, his face is not one you can easily forget._

"_You must be Mary Crawley," he gives her a suave smile._

_Mary gets to her feet and extends a hand, "It's nice to meet you Mr Carlisle."_

"_And you," she can feel his eyes looking her over, "After all, I've heard so many good things about you."_

"_Have you?" An eyebrow arcs._

"_But of course. The famous Mary Crawley? They say you're just like your grandmother. I thought it was time to see for myself."_

_Something about his tone leaves her more than a little uncomfortable. _

_She treads carefully, "So that's what brings you to my door?"_

"_In part," Carlisle tips his head._

"_Then to what else do I owe this pleasure?"_

_He smirks. Apparently he appreciates directness. "There's no getting past you, is there Miss Crawley?"_

"_I just thought I'd save you the time and get to the point."_

"_How generous of you," he even laughs this time, a short coarse laugh full of mirth. "But in that case I'll admit that I'm here also because I've been trying to win myself some time with the illustrious Lord Crawley – he's been rather elusive of late. I hear that when he's otherwise engaged, you're the person I ought to be speaking with."_

_His gaze goes hard, the hint of a threat dancing before her precariously._

_The truth of it cuts a little close to the bone._

"_Where did you hear that?" Mary asks innocuously. _

"_Now that would be telling."_

_This doesn't make her feel any better._

"_If that's how you want to be," she makes a show of shrugging it off. She doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. "What is it that you want from my father?"_

_His smirk returns. _

"_May I sit?" Carlisle motions to a chair by her desk._

"_Of course," she replies tightly, resuming her own seat in turn. _

_He takes a deep breath and more grandly than he deserves, begins, "I've been hearing some rather... interesting things about your father, Miss Crawley."_

"_Interesting?" Mary feels her heart pick up just a fraction._

"_This Mr Pamuk..." Carlisle seems to enjoy leaving the words hanging. She doesn't let her expression falter. _

"_The name does sound familiar... "_

_Her lie catches him – if only for a second._

"_Oh? You see, I thought you would know him well."_

"_I'm sorry to disappoint you."_

_His eyes watch her carefully. "Perhaps you should ask your father about him. I hear he caused him a spot of bother recently – Pamuk is mixed up with some rather unpleasant things, it would seem."_

"_Oh dear," her brows knit together in an innocent frown, "That doesn't sound very good."_

"_No it doesn't, does it? I thought I ought to warn him to be _careful_, you know, when it comes to Pamuk, when it comes to what he can do for his company..."_

"_And what might that be?" she fishes._

_Smoothly Carlisle replies, "That's something else you should ask your father."_

"_I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."_

"_I'm sure you don't. But you might tell him that I stopped by – maybe in future he'll be more willing to meet with me." His grin is almost a leer. "Lord Crawley is a powerful man at the helm of Downton, that I don't deny, but let's not forget that we in the media still have our ways of... keeping an eye on things, keeping them all in check."_

_Carlisle gets to his feet. _

"_It was nice to meet you Mary – if I can call you Mary, that is?"_

_Her answering smile is tight. "Mary's fine."_

_From his place by her desk he looks around the room – this space that has become her own inside the Parliament. "It's rather a nice idea, isn't it? The Palace of Westminster, the halls of power – I imagine you could get used to it."_

"_It has its benefits," she tells him, her menace hidden somewhere behind her politeness. _

"_I always did rather fancy politics."_

"_Maybe one day you'll run then?"_

_Carlisle laughs, "I don't think I'd ever be elected. There are far too many skeletons in my closet, I don't deny it."_

_He shakes her hand once more and goes to leave, his parting shot, "Do remember to tell your father what I've said. I imagine he'll be most interested."_

_She watches him retreat down the long hall and only once he's long gone does she allow herself to react – her breaths coming quickly and shakily, her mind racing._

_Somehow – though she doesn't know how – Carlisle _knows_._

_Carlisle knows._

_._

Matthew hasn't seen her quite like this – not since he'd shown up at her flat and she'd started to explain.

As she draws off with her story about Carlisle, she seems to fold in on herself, she becomes smaller somehow and her eyes go dark.

"What is it?" he asks. Something can't be right.

"I went to see him."

"Carlisle?"

"No, my father. After Carlisle came to our office."

He waits.

It seems to be the right thing to do when she continues after seconds trickle by, "That was how I found out he was having an affair."

"What?"

"It was someone that worked for him. Her name was Jane, I think, not really that pretty in spite of the circumstances." She throws her last comment away with wit that seems to come from a sense of self-preservation.

"Oh Mary..." He wants to reach out to her but she remains solid, contained almost to herself and seemingly unresponsive to any advances.

Not allowing herself to dwell on any of it, she continues distractedly, "Papa wondered, later on at least, if Carlisle might know about those particular dalliances as well. After I told him about what Carlisle had had to say about Pamuk, they saw a bit more of each other – naturally Papa felt compelled – and Carlisle tried on all the same things he had with me. Vague threats, open ended comments – there came a time when it was hard to tell what he knew and when he was just toying with us."

"But _how_? How did he know about it all?"

Mary looks utterly drained, "We don't know."

"You don't _know_?"

"We can't work out who would have told him, how all the pieces could have come together."

Matthew finds himself wondering over this, "Did you ever look into it further?"

"As much as I could," she shrugs, "I think Papa was afraid of making things worse for himself if Carlisle had found out we were picking around – he wasn't exactly co-operative, which made it hard to get anywhere."

"It's not _right_."

"Be that as it may, Papa _did_ do all the things that Carlisle took to holding over him – it's not as if he's some kind of innocent party," Mary points out plainly before continuing, "Carlisle seemed to prefer the power it gave him, so as long as my father did whatever it was Carlisle wanted, it stayed out of his papers."

"What sort of things did he want?" he presses, the whole idea not sitting quite right with him.

Something about it all doesn't _fit_.

She gives him a grim smile, "At first just favours, inconsequential things. When it came down to it, he never wanted all that much from my _father_."

Concern colours his question, "You?"

Rich with cynicism, she announces, "Turns out, Carlisle wanted my job."

Chief of Staff. It all does make rather a lot of sense.

Mary goes on to explain, "He poked around our office a bit after that day he came to see me – I think he just took a shine to the notion and it gave him the chance to remind me that I was beholden to him just as much as my father. After we won the election, I imagine he saw a real chance for power and he leaned on Papa for the job. There was nothing I could do and I had to go along with it."

"I take it Carson wasn't too pleased?"

"Of course not, but then he had Papa pressuring him as the incoming Party Chairman and I'd told him it was what I thought was best. Though he knew something wasn't right, he also knew not to ask – in the end he just had to go with it."

"It can't be a very harmonious arrangement."

"Not always," she agrees, her words still flat, "Carlisle isn't incompetent and when it suits him, he gets the job done. It's far from ideal, though."

Matthew nods his agreement.

There's another long moment of silence – in such a heavy night of explanations there have been many – and Matthew can't help but feel that Mary is still somewhat walled off emotionally from the way she holds herself apart from him, body language guarded and eyes downcast.

Eventually, she begins softly, "You might see now the _other_ reason that I had to keep the secret. Mama knows about the affair, of course, but it would really hurt her if it somehow became public knowledge." Her expression, "It would be dragged through the papers, people would talk about her, she doesn't deserve that – especially not after everything that's happened."

"Is that why she lives in New York?" he asks carefully.

"Yeah," Mary nods without looking at him, "That and Sybil. It was a shit time and I don't really blame her."

"But it still makes you sad that she's not here."

It's not a question, but instead a gentle observation as he tries to reach across the uncomfortable void between them.

Mary finally turns.

It surprises him and doesn't to find that she's crying.

"Oh Mary," his hand goes out and he offers gently, "Come here."

She folds in towards him easily and his arms wrap around her.

He's never seen her as he has tonight – not this raw, not this honest and never this affected by all she has to deal with. It's a daunting prospect but it also seems a precious kind of insight that he refuses to take lightly.

She stays as she is, curled into him as his hand carefully glides down her back in comfort. Again, he murmurs, "Oh darling."

He just holds her like this for the longest time.

.

"_What are you doing skulking out there?" With the door open a few inches, Carson's voice comes through from his office._

_Mary sighs and steps inside, closing the door firmly behind her, "Working up the nerve."_

"_Whatever for?"_

_She looks up and gives him a sad sort f look, "We're going to lose the vote Carson."_

_He doesn't falter. "I know."_

"_We've done all we can," she tries to explain, "There's a whole team of people – we've called, we've appeared at their doors, we've threatened and promised..."_

"_I have no doubt that you will have done absolutely everything in your power," Carson replies calmly._

"_We're still going to lose."_

_And again, he tells her, "I know."_

"_Aren't you concerned?" Her voice raises a few notes on the question._

"_Not when I know that we've done what we can – we can hold our heads high because at least we _tried_," he nods assuredly. "We were going to lose this one from the start Mary, let's take the hit and bring some service men and women home, bring families together instead of pouring money into a war we're never going to win."_

"_Is that really how you see it?"_

"_It's how the people see it, that much is clear. We've had the chance to argue our side, now it's our duty to respect the decision voters of our electors and their Parliament."_

"_But maybe if I'd-"_

_Carson cuts her off, "It's over now. I'm grateful for you and I'm grateful to have a host of staff working for me that will fight these things to the death, but it's _over_."_

_Mary finds herself pointing out, if a little proudly, "It wasn't just your staff working for you out there tonight – there are a lot of people on board that want to do right by you." _

"_Even better," he replies, with an amount of humility – reverence, even – behind the sentiment. Giving Mary a knowing look, he continues, "Is there any chance... Matthew Crawley made a reappearance among those fighting for the cause?"_

_This catches her more than a little by surprise. "I'm sorry?"_

"_I'm not completely without my uses, you know. I see things, I hear things."_

"_Oh? And what is it that you see and hear?"_

"_I see that you rather like him," he raises an eyebrow, "But I hear that he's been rather... hard to locate recently."_

"_Anna?"_

"_I will admit to no such thing."_

"_I don't appreciate you spying on me." But Mary's words are lighter than before._

"_There's a difference between spying and looking out for you. I have MI5 for _spying._"_

"_Oh? Should I be worried that my phone's tapped then?"_

"_Now that one I really won't admit to. That's decidedly not my style."_

"_I believe you." She almost smiles. Not quite, but her expression flickers if for a moment. _

_Once more, he presses, "So what of Mr Crawley?"_

_She takes a breath and decides to tell him what he wants to know. Carson always seems to earn her more candid moments, "He was there tonight. The disappearing act was because he broke up with his girlfriend and was taking some time." And then, after a breath, "He was a really... good help."_

"_Did he end his relationship with this girl in any part due to you, perhaps?"_

"_He didn't say," she replies, doing well to sound so unaffected._

"_Did you ask?"_

"_...In a way."_

"_But he didn't answer?"_

"_He said he'd tell me some other time."_

_Carson seems to consider this before getting to his feet._

"_I think you should go and get your answer."_

"_What?"_

_He slides out from behind the desk and crouches low beside one of his bookcases. Pulling on a handle, a recessed storage compartment swings open._

_A wine rack._

"_Here," he resurfaces and holds out a bottle of champagne, "It looks like that one is one of the gems from grandmother's days in this office. You should go and get your answer."_

"_What's this for?" she takes the bottle._

"_I might not have anything to celebrate tonight but it's not to say that you won't."_

"_I can't, Carson," she tells him, some of the dejection from earlier leaking back into her demeanour. _

"_Why not?"_

"_We're about to lose a vote. It's not going to be pretty."_

"_So? Life goes on Mary." He takes her other hand and wraps it loosely around the bottle, "Life goes on and I think you need to do this."_

"_I do?"_

_He nods, "You need to talk to Matthew Crawley."_

_She stands there for a while, just thinking._

_And then she turns to leave._

"_Mary?" Carson calls to her just before she steps out of the room, "Try not to take it too hard. It won't be pleasant but we'll be fine. I'll be fine."_

"_I'll try." She leaves him with a small smile, "Thanks Carson."_

_Moving back out through the halls of Number Ten, Mary looks to the time and realises it won't be long until Carson has to leave for the vote in the Commons. In the moment, drained and weary, she knows that she won't be able to watch it unfold – it's too morbid when she knows well how it's going to go._

_On the street, she pulls out her phone – already ringing off the hook in her pocket – and with a free hand, turns it to silent. A cab appears and she slides into the back, giving the driver Matthew's address with a building sense of anticipation._

_She might not be able to watch tonight, but she _is_ going to wait._

_._


	10. Chapter 10

** Ten**

.

**Day 1**

.

There's a quiet understanding between the when they get up the next morning – they don't really talk about much as they begin to ready themselves for the day but things do briefly become affectionate while they wait for her coffee machine to warm up.

And then again once the coffee is made.

Matthew can't deny it's a pleasant way to start the day.

Mary seems a little lighter – not just with the benefit of a night's sleep since their rather draining and protracted discussion the evening before, but also because there are no secrets to hang awkwardly between them now and instead a kind of... understanding.

In between their more endearing moments, they banter over the heat setting on the toaster and he relishes in a snarky comment about her preference for always buying the non-fat kind of milk. She smiles at him indulgently as they argue and pats him absently on the head when she, as so often seems to be the case these days, wins out easily each time.

When breakfast is ready (burnt toast and _can't you taste the difference Mary? _coffee) they sit at the table, if only to give her enough time to skim the morning's press clippings. As a comfortable silence falls over them, he eventually has to ask, carefully neutral with his words, "Do you think Carlisle will be in at the office this morning?"

"I have no idea," Mary shrugs, but gives him a significant sort of look.

Though she doesn't hold it against him, she seems to know well enough why he's asking.

"We don't have to talk about it if it's going to make things worse. I just thought..." The sentence trails off.

"Yeah. He and I didn't exactly leave things on the best of terms. There was pushing involved."

This, briefly, makes Matthew smile, "I gathered."

"He left after that and I haven't heard from him since. I get the feeling he won't be happy with me." Mary gives her assessment of the situation sounding generally unconcerned. Matthew knows better than to take this as any kind of reflection upon her actual feelings on the matter.

"Do you think he'll do anything... rash?"

"Oh, probably. It's not as if I have specific thoughts on what it might be, but it's Richard Carlisle so there's bound to be _something_."

But as it turns out, Matthew doesn't have to wait that long to find out what that _something_ might be.

.

_**PM's office is 'dysfunctional'**_

_A source close to Downing Street has suggested recently that the environment inside Charles Carson's office within Number Ten is 'dysfunctional'._

_Speaking exclusively with _The Times_, the source has reported certain members of Carson's senior staff have become known for their difficult manner and the friction that they have created among others in the PM's team, as well as other government departments._

_Among those raised as a concern is Downing Street Deputy Chief of Staff Mary Crawley – notably the daughter of Conservative Party Chairman, Robert Crawley..._

_._

"It's The Times," he tells her with a note of concern, "It's one of Carlisle's papers."

She comes around to have a look. "It's five or six pages back."

"So?"

Mary then grabs her phone and taps at it a few times with a curious expression on her face, "It's also not on the main page of their website."

"And that means...?"

"It means it's a warning shot. In case one of us decides to pursue him after what happened."

"Well one of us _should_," he replies determinedly.

"You know we can't," Mary gives him a wistful sort of look. "I think he _knows_ Matthew... Not just about Papa, but _us_ as well. I said it last night, but I think that's what set him off in the office yesterday."

"Do you think we have to be careful?" he asks warily.

"...Possibly."

Matthew sighs, "I don't want to be. I don't want to play his game."

"I don't either, but I'd rather that to Carlisle trying to ruin things for his own end." Pacing the floor of his kitchen, she gives him a little more to work with, "At least we should play it by ear for a few days; we might have a better idea of what he's up to by then."

"I suppose that makes sense, because I certainly don't know where he's going with it all right now. None of it _fits_ the way it stands at the moment – at least not in my head."

"Why not?"

Rubbing at his forehead tiredly, frustratedly, he tries to explain, "Why lead with this story? What's holding him back if he has something on us? He saw the stir created by Bates and Anna, so he knows perfectly well that a story like that would be dangerous and effective."

"It could just be a lucky guess if that's the case – maybe he was just reaching around until he struck a nerve. Or he could be waiting for something a little more concrete."

"It's time someone pursued him for this, Mary. Even beyond what it means for you and I – none of it sits right with me."

It's been turning over in his head since the night before – the details she's given him, how Carlisle has used the information, what it's all supposed to _mean_...

He finds himself coming to some worrying conclusions.

Caught up in his own momentum, Matthew continues, "I mean, how did he get all this information? Are there other people – _important _people – in addition to your father that he's leaning on?"

And then he pauses, briefly hesitating over what he has to say next.

"Matthew?" she prompts.

"I've been thinking about it. And it's just..." Again, he takes his time. "...Do you think it could be phone hacking?"

It's a heavy, tricky suggestion.

She replies carefully, "I have wondered. But the inquiry into it all last year had investigative powers much further reaching than mine and none of Carlisle's operations were ever implicated."

Matthew remembers how it had all been a sensational story, how it had all gone on for months and how no one could quite believe it when the Britannia News Group had been one of the few to go untouched when findings had been handed down.

"I suppose..." he thinks about it momentarily. "There _are_ ways he might have gotten around it though."

Mary raises an eyebrow.

"Will you let me look into it?" Matthew asks.

"If you want to."

The more he thinks about it, the more he knows he should.

It'll just hang over them like some sort of spectre otherwise.

"I'll need whatever documentation you have. Phone records if they're still around, company accounts, minutes or any notes..."

She nods, "I'll get what I can."

"I think... I think we should talk to your father."

Her head turns, "My father?"

"He _would_ be the best place to start when it comes to most of the information we want."

"And _you_ want to talk to him? About everything I told you about Downton?"

Her questions are a little sharper than before but Matthew is confident, "And about Carlisle. But yes, I do. I need to be able to _try_ and I think it will really help."

After a long moment, Mary nods slowly. "Then you should call him."

"I think you should be there."

They need to do this together.

Still, she wavers.

"Mary..."

"It won't be very easy," she admits, "We don't really... talk about these things. And I'm not sure how pleased he'll be finding out that I've told you about it all."

"That's not his choice."

He has to admit – now he has the luxury of knowing what's going on – Robert's attitude and his handling of the whole mess rubs him the wrong way.

It may be, in part, why he's so determined to see him.

"Still, you should call him. He'll make some time if you call."

She clears her plate after this, rising somewhat abruptly and keeping herself busy enough that he doesn't get the chance to say anything further. He knows it's not so much him as it is a touchy subject and he decides to leave it well alone.

Picking up his phone, he dials Robert's number.

.

Mary hadn't exactly been expecting things to move so quickly. No sooner than Matthew had made his call, the two of them were rushing out the door for a breakfast meeting at her father's office at CCHQ.

"I didn't exactly tell him you would be coming," Matthew had admitted after they'd hailed a taxi, "I thought that might make him... suspicious."

Giving him a cryptic smile and fixing her gaze outside the window of the car, she'd told him, "You're probably right."

And then for a while at least, silence had fallen over them and Mary had been left to her thoughts.

She'd felt better when she'd woken that morning – it wasn't exactly hard given the state she'd been by the time all their explanations had been finished with the night before – but she'd also been lifted by the thought that for the first time in a long while, she'd been able to be plainly honest with someone.

She'd been honest and the world hadn't ended.

It had been the talk of Carlisle and of her father to bring her down a little, because of course it's all still going to hang over her and of course it'll be complicated now by what had happened in her office on Monday. With all this in mind, she doesn't dare let herself hope for anything to come from Matthew's enquiries but she finds she doesn't mind the thought of a second pair of eyes looking it over.

About halfway there she'd turned to him, taking her opportunity to speak up, "I know this has been a lot to take in. You've dealt with it all better than I ever could have hoped and I do appreciate that."

"I'm trying," he'd smiled – a small but genuine smile. And then, "We'll work something out."

Her lips had curled at the edges, "We will."

They'd done well enough so far.

For the rest of the drive, they had succumbed once again to a familiar silence and when they finally arrive, Matthew opens Mary's door for her and follows closely behind as they step inside the high-rise at 30 Millbank.

Needless to say, her father is surprised to see her.

"Mary? I thought it was just Matthew this morning."

"I thought Mary should be here as well," Matthew is the one to explain, "I asked her to come."

If he thinks there's anything unusual about this, Robert doesn't let on and instead ushers them inside, "Oh? Right, well come in. It's good to see you."

Mary says little. Matthew awkwardly fills the silence by greeting her father in return, perhaps more reserved than usual.

"I got the impression it was quite important when you called that it was rather important," Robert still addresses him warmly without paying much heed to Mary still hovering behind him.

"It is," Matthew replies carefully.

Warmly, Robert offers, "Well if there's anything I can do for you..."

From her place at the back of the room and growing a little tired with her father's fawning, Mary decides to cut to the heart of things, "Matthew knows about Downton, Papa. All of it."

The change in his expression is instant and would have been comical were it not for the dark gleam in his eye. "_What?_"

She holds herself at the back of the room, maintaining what seems like a safe distance while Matthew seems to gravitate forwards. "I told him everything."

At her words – a very blunt explanation for the whole situation – Matthew gets stuck in the middle of the room between her and her father, hanging awkwardly while Robert takes everything in.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I wanted him to know," she dismisses him a little coldly.

Robert gapes at her for a moment and then turns his attentions elsewhere, "You must understand Matthew this is a very complicated-"

"He knows that just fine, Papa."

"I do," Matthew agrees.

"He wants to help," Mary explains, "Matthew's going to look into what Carlisle's been doing."

"I wanted to come and see you to get as much first hand information as possible. I think there might be something there in the way he's gone about this," Matthew adds.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Robert dismisses the notion out of hand.

It's Matthew that asks, "Why not?"

"Do you really know what you're doing with this? What you're getting into?" Robert looks to him seriously. "It can only cause more trouble."

"I don't agree," Matthew comes across firmly with his response. "I think it's gone on too long and I think that maybe it'll help you if someone actually looked at what's been going on. Carlisle doesn't just get to know these things by magic, so he either doesn't have as much on you as you think or he's _involved_ in it somehow. Whichever of the two it is, there could be something there for you to work with."

He seems to think about this as just a few seconds tick by before reverting to his hard line, "No, if that were really the case it would have been discovered long ago."

Mary wants to groan. She's known for a long time that her father is a man stuck in his ways but his stubbornness now is decidedly infuriating.

Though she knows it must all come with his fear that surrounds the whole situation, she has little patience for it and quickly bites back, "Oh come on, Papa."

He turns to her, responding hotly, "I thought you of all people would be agreeing with me, Mary. You were the one who looked into it when it all began; you were the one who said there was nothing to be found."

"I _said_ I couldn't find anything – you didn't exactly make it easy for me. I didn't say there was nothing to be found."

"But what if there isn't? What if we get ourselves mixed up with it all again after _finally_ putting it behind us and still nothing is to come of it?"

Something about this suggestion makes Matthew just... snap, Mary can see it in the way his expression freezes and then how his mouth curls, eyes narrowing.

He closes the space between where he stands and where Robert sits at his desk.

"You really think this is _behind you?_" he asks almost threateningly. "You think that maybe because Carlisle hasn't troubled _you_ for anything in months or years or however long it's been that it's not really a _problem _anymore?"

Surprised by the outburst, Robert clearly has no idea how to respond.

Matthew's voice is colder, more reasoned and unerringly pointed when he continues, "He's threatening Mary, you know. He uses _your_ little indiscretion to get away with sexual harassment and now he's planting stories in the press designed to intimidate her somehow."

This seems to catch him and he looks back and forth between Mary and Matthew several times, struggling...

Mary can't tell if it's her father is tripped up by what Matthew has said or something else he might have more unintentionally revealed.

He is a little softer when he asks her, "Is that true?"

"Yes."

Her father's face falls into something more concerned, "Mary..."

Not particularly eager to talk about it, she takes advantage of his troubled pause and asks, "Will you give Matthew what he needs?"

He sighs, "Do you really think it will help?"

"I think it can't hurt."

"Then... alright."

He's eyeing Matthew, readying himself to say something more when a voice from the phone on the desk – an intercom through to his assistant in the next room – interrupts them, "I'm terribly sorry Lord Crawley."

"What is it, Ivy?"

"Richard Carlisle is here and he's demanding to see you. He insists that it's very urgent, sir."

All of them – Robert and Matthew and even Mary let the horror show plain on their faces and their concerned eyes dart around the room from one to the other.

"...You'll have to tell him I'm in a meeting. Make a time to see him later in the day."

"He, ah, he says he's well aware of your meeting and that he would like to talk to Mary and Matthew Crawley as well."

_Shit._

She waits until her father has lifted his hand away from the phone.

"He'll have had someone waiting for us – maybe even following us," Mary realises, "They must have seen us arrive here earlier. I should have thought about that."

"This isn't your fault," Matthew is quick to reassure her and again, Robert looks between them carefully.

"What's going on?" he demands, "Why would Carlisle follow you? Why is he here?"

She sees no choice but to explain, "We had a run in with him last night."

"A run in?"

It's not the sort of thing she could ever find easy to detail plainly for her father.

A sigh, "He got a bit bold and he... tried it on. He's been acting up because he's spooked – Matthew saw some of what happened and he doesn't have anything to blackmail _him_ into silence."

"That's why you're here? That's why Matthew _knows_?"

The question is a slow one as it all comes together before him.

She shoots her father a sharp look, "It's not the _only_ reason."

After this, a long moment of silence hangs between them.

"You should tell him to come in, Papa."

"What?" Matthew speaks up again, sounding alarmed.

"What other choice do we have? It'll just make things worse if we send him away."

"Maybe the two of you should go," her father suggests, an edge of nervousness now evident in his voice.

"And leave you to deal with it all in the same very _efficient_ way you have in the past? No. We stay. We _deal_ with this."

No one moves.

"Send him in, Papa."

So he presses the button and mutters his assent to Ivy on the other end.

It's time to _deal_ with it.

Mary refuses to move from her place as she hears the door opening. Though she doesn't turn, the measured beat of footsteps crossing the floor behind her sets her on edge.

Once a heavy moment passes, Carlisle is, of course, the first one among them to say anything. "It's a cosy gathering we have here."

"Hardly." She resists an urge to roll her eyes.

"I imagine you've all had _much_ to say about me."

Mary finally turns her body partway in his direction, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

With a little too much practise at this game, she knows what she's doing.

Deny, deny, deny.

"Oh really?" He feigns his usual threatening surprise. "Because here I thought that a meeting between Matthew and Robert Crawley _must_ have had something to do with the former's mistaken impression of a conversation he so rudely interrupted last night."

"I'm afraid not."

Everyone else in the room seems to be frozen in their place.

"So I can assume you've set him straight then?" Carlisle asks.

"Absolutely."

Mary has sensed it building from the start of her conversation with Carlisle and as she makes her reassurance with a smile, she can tell the moment Matthew's frustration gets the better of him, finally speaking up, "You don't have to do this Mary."

It's not as if she thought that Carlisle would actually believe anything that she'd had to say but still, Matthew's concern is clear.

Carlisle turns, looking almost pleased, "Oh, I think she does, Mr Crawley."

"It's fine Matthew. Just leave it."

She tries to be gentle with the suggestion but there's something about the warning – an urgent attempt to diffuse the situation – that is unavoidably sharp.

"Not at all, _dear_ Matthew," he shoots the endearment as a barb in Mary's direction, "If you have something to say, then by all means, say it."

Matthew's eyes are icy, icy cold. "You're sick, do you know that?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You're _sick_. You fool yourself into believing you have all this power, but I'm starting to think it's all a big lie."

"Now Matthew..." Robert tries to step in but Matthew isn't listening and Carlisle waves him off.

"No, go on, tell me more," Carlisle taunts.

Still, Matthew doesn't shy away.

"You've spent all this time threatening people to get what you want, you blackmail and you manipulate like it's some kind of sport and do you know what? I don't think you're as big as you think you are." The accusation is thrown out heavily, confidently, with Matthew almost relishing in the chance to take Carlisle down a few pegs. Full of momentum, he continues assuredly, "I think if you actually had half the dirt you claimed to, you would have put it in your papers years ago. You of all people would never be able to resist the chance to sell more papers, the chance to create some kind of _sensation_."

"It's amazing, the folly of youthful enthusiasm," Carlisle laughs bitterly at Matthew's suggestion. "But I'm afraid you're quite wrong Mr Crawley, and I imagine your friends here could only agree."

"What are you saying?" Matthew asks darkly.

"Well, if I understand your accusations correctly, it's been so many years that I've falsely held some kind of power of Lord Crawley and over your _darling_ Mary – yet this is the first I've heard anyone make suggestions like those you seem to be making now. All this time and not _one_ word from either of them."

Carlisle seems so pleased with himself, the words tripping out on an easy lilt rich with brash self-assuredness.

He keeps on pushing, "All this time and dear Mary has never said a thing about _any_ aspect of my conduct. Not a word. In fact, I'd go so far to say that she _enjoyed_ it – I'd say she enjoyed every. last. minute."

That's all it takes.

Matthew loses it.

Before anyone else can move, before Mary has the chance to diffuse what she knows right away has become a _dangerously_ heated exchange, Matthew lunges at Carlisle and his fist connects soundly with his face.

Stationery and furniture go flying.

A satisfying crack rings out upon impact.

It's the sound, it seems, that spurs both she and her father into action as they both jump between the two to pull them apart.

"Stop this at once!" Robert adopts a sense of upright authority that Mary could only wish he'd embraced more willingly when they'd first arrived at his office.

After a scuffle – both Carlisle and Matthew still grappling, struggling to make a swipe in the other's direction – Mary and her father are able to separate them.

"You should leave, Richard," Robert tells him sternly, "Just... leave."

It strikes Mary that the situation must be far enough gone that even her father is struggling for a way to salvage things.

"Smooth, you are," Carlisle spits back at him, "Such a model of transparency and responsibility. I wonder if you'll be quite so serene when the papers are full of your own scandal."

Carlisle's eyes spin around to Mary as he chokes the words out, quite obviously to extend the threat in her direction.

Robert is firm, "I shall do my best."

Without saying anything further, Carlisle storms from the room.

And then for a moment – Matthew clutching his hand, Mary and her father stony faced – there is silence.

It's Robert, surprisingly light with his words as he looks over the debris created by the brief fray, who speaks first, "You'll have to apologise to my mother for the vase."

"Of course," Matthew looks contrite. "Oh god. Oh god, what did I just do?"

"Something that a lot of people have wanted to do for a very long time," Robert tells him dryly.

"But Carlisle – does this mean he's going to..."

He doesn't seem quite able to speak the suggestion aloud.

Still dry, "I suppose now is the time for your theory about Carlisle's less than sufficient information to be tested."

"This was always going to happen eventually," Mary turns to him, speaking practically though still reassuringly, "We're just going to have to work more quickly than we anticipated."

"Do you really think there's something there? Something to discredit him?" her father asks seriously.

She just shrugs, "Matthew does make a compelling argument. We can only try."

Surveying the room along with the blank faces of Matthew and her father, Mary finally makes a decision, "I think Matthew and I need to get out of here. If I'm right about Carlisle's next move, we're about to get barricaded in by the press and I'd much rather get out of here on our own terms."

With nothing more than perfunctory nods from the two men before her, she picks up her phone.

"Lang? It's Mary. I'm going to need an escorted car."

.

_**Downing Street staff at war**_

_Downing Street has been rocked today by suggestions that the Prime Minister's senior staff are 'at war' and are unable to properly fulfil their roles in light of the growing tension among key figures and in particular, Deputy Chief of Staff Mary Crawley._

_Sources close to Downing Street have made it known that Crawley, daughter of Party Chairman Robert Crawley, commands an unusual amount of power within the Prime Minister's office and that her habit of making sweeping policy and strategy decisions without consultation at more senior levels has created a difficult working environment for many working in her purview. _

Photo: Mary Crawley leaves Conservative Campaign Headquarters this morning, where her father has an office.

_Chief of Staff Richard Carlisle has refused to respond to questions on the matter, stating that he does not comment on the internal workings of the Prime Minister's office, but a well-placed source has also confirmed that he is concerned and is keen to restore a sense of order and coherence to the environment inside Downing Street..._

.

"It's on the news front page this time," Mary looks up from her phone.

"It's some of the worst journalism I've ever seen," Matthew's anger from before seems to have resurfaced, and with an edge of fire he grouses, "The only person it bothers to name as party to this so-called tension is _you_. If there's tension _among_ people in your office, there obviously has to be more than one person involved."

"That hardly matters. Carlisle's strategy now is to make this about _me_," she shrugs.

"And that's _obviously_ a quote straight from his mouth to that page."

"I'm sure it is. It's one of his papers after all."

"You're not concerned_?_" he asks, almost frustrated by her lack of reaction.

"Well I'm not _surprised_."

"Okay, stop!" A frustrated voice breaks in, "Someone's going to have to tell me what the _hell _is going on."

Anna.

The interruption brings them both to a pause.

After Mary had made the call back at her father's office, Protection Command had sent a car complete with its own security escort and as she'd hoped, it had been enough to shake any of the press thinking of following them when she and Matthew had made their escape.

Unsure of where Carlisle might have been headed, unwilling to make things worse by showing up at her office at Downing Street blind or at either one of their flats where press might be waiting and aware of the media scuffle likely just waiting to unfold, she had directed the driver to the best place she could think of – Anna's one bed studio – before calling in her friend in for support.

And as she'd predicted, by the time the three of them had gathered inside Anna's flat, the story had broken.

"Carlisle's the one planting the stories," Mary tries to explain.

"I gathered that much. But _why_?"

She sighs. She's going to have to tread carefully.

"He's got something on my father. And me, I suppose, by extension."

"Is that-" Anna struggles a little, "...Is that what he's been holding over you? Why he's got your Chief of Staff job?"

Mary knows that Anna has always wondered.

She'd been wise enough never to ask.

"Yes."

"And something's... happened?"

"Yes." She then adds, "He's trying to discredit me with the stories before I find a way to discredit _him_. It's going to be a media war."

"Christ."

"I know."

"Then we'll just have to turn it all back on him. We have to bring _his _conduct around the office into question – it's not as if it'll be hard," Anna almost scoffs with the sentiment, but mercifully, doesn't seem interested in asking any more questions.

Anna has always been a model of discretion that way. Mary loves her all the more for it.

"Do you really think that's our best move?" Mary asks genuinely.

"It'll at least give you time to find whatever it is he doesn't want you to find."

"Except we don't know that there _is_ anything."

Matthew finally breaks his silence, "There is. There has to be, I'm sure of it."

Mary tips her head, "Why?"

"Is the same as this morning," he begins urgently, "Why is he still running with a story like this if he truly has something solid on you or your father? I couldn't have been sure before but I am now – it's phone hacking; it has to be."

"Phone hacking?" Anna's face goes dark at the barest mention. Phone hacking is media poison.

"At best, he has patchy information from one-sided voicemails – it's enough to lean on the likes of Robert with all his vague threats, but if he publishes, not only does he make it clear what he does and doesn't know, giving you all a pretty good idea where he's getting the details from, he also runs the risk of a libel suit when he can't provide any proof for what he's saying. He's hardly going to roll out the voicemails he illegally obtained to back up his claims." He pauses only to take a breath before continuing confidently, "_That's_ why he's not put any of this in the paper yet. That's why he has to go with a different approach."

"Then why lean on Mary with his stories? It's Lord Crawley he's got dirt on, isn't it?" Anna asks them both warily.

And then Mary realises.

"It must be because he thinks he can get my father back on side. He's going to keep up with his threats in the hope that Papa gets scared and comes back around. Then he's setting up the perfect way to get rid of me once he has the Party Chairman willing to speak out against me and put the pressure on Carson again to save his own skin."

"No," Anna looks horrified, "Besides, Carson would never go for that."

"Yeah, but if my own father starts making moves against me, I don't really have a great deal of choice, do I?"

"Bloody hell." The words escape before Anna seems to be able to stop them.

"There's still hope we can turn this around," Matthew points out, appearing to cling to the last tenuous shreds of practicality, "The two of us can start seriously looking into the phone hacking idea and Anna can run interference with the media to buy us time like she said."

"That I can definitely do," Anna gives him a smile that gleams with menace.

"But in the mean time we have to be... _careful_," Mary cautions them both, "I don't imagine Carlisle is resourceful enough to have taken this further hacking a few voicemail accounts but we need to be wary of how we communicate."

Anna adds to her warning, "You're also going to have to watch out for the press. I have a fair idea of how Carlisle plays these things and it's probably going to involve trial by media."

"Which means what, for us, exactly?" Matthew asks.

"No appearances outside the four walls of your own home that you don't want splashed on the front of The Times." And then with half a smile, she recalls lightly, "Not even on your front step – I learnt that one the hard way."

Except Anna has a point.

Unable to avoid it, Mary observes without emotion, "He's probably going to try and get something that will let him run on Matthew and I being together."

"Does Carlisle _know?_" Anna turns to her.

"I don't know. It's very possible."

A heavy look passes around the room.

And then Mary sighs, "This is going to get messy."

Anna is resolved, "Then let's get to work."

.

_**Carlisle missing in action on night of defence vote**_

_With reports circulating that the highest ranking staff of Prime Minister Charles Carson are warring internally, it has now been claimed that former media mogul and Downing Street Chief of Staff Richard Carlisle was 'missing in action' the night Carson lost a significant vote in the House of Commons over defence spending._

_A source close to the PM's office has remarked that the evening of the vote, when most staff within Downing Street were working late into the night in an attempt to secure the numbers needed to pass the ill-fated and controversial bill, Carlisle was nowhere to be seen and had no hand in supporting Carson in his time of need..._

_._

**Day 2**

.

Mary's day is _not_ getting off to a good start.

If it wasn't bad enough that she'd woken up alone – cold and decidedly unrested, having heard next to nothing from Matthew after their agreement at Anna's flat to be _cautious_ – she fields a call from Carson as she readies for the day and essentially has to lie through her teeth in order to allay his growing concerns about the escalating news stories.

_No, there isn't a problem._

_No, you don't need to be concerned._

_Yes, I'll be in the office later today._

She hates lying to Carson.

And then, as she steps out her front door on her way to the first engagement of the day, several cameras flash.

Day two of their stalemate and there are already a handful of photographers set up outside her flat – probably on Carlisle's instruction – ready for the next story he wants to stick her face on amidst all-out media war.

So it begins.

.

It's after eight that evening when Matthew finds himself ushered into a more private room inside Robert Crawley's exclusive London gentleman's club of choice.

"We'll be alright to talk in here," Robert explains, "Carlisle has been trying to join Boodle's for years but he's been blackballed and declined membership on more than one occasion."

Unwilling to see a repeat of the events from the previous morning, Matthew had made it clear to Robert during his short and careful call earlier in the day that they'd need somewhere to meet away from prying eyes.

Admittedly, a dubiously-named gentleman's club, shrouded in secrecy wasn't quite what he'd had in mind.

In response to Robert's remark, Matthew almost smiles, "I don't imagine that makes him very happy."

A little smugly, "It doesn't. It's one of life's great pleasures to see Richard Carlisle fail to get something he wants."

The door is then closed behind them and they both settle into sizable armchairs. Hard liquor is offered and declined.

"I think I ought to keep my wits about me," Matthew explains.

"That's probably wise. I take it Carlisle is keeping pretty close tabs on you?"

"Mary more so than me, it would seem," he says more neutrally than the sentiment deserves, "But so far there's been a photographer or two to contend with most places that I go."

"Christ. This whole thing has gotten rather serious, hasn't it?"

Flatly, he bites back, "It's _always_ been serious, Robert."

The elder Crawley's features quickly grow stormy, eyes narrowed and lips in a firm line.

Matthew can't quite bring himself to care.

"I just came here to get the information we need to move forward. I didn't exactly get the chance yesterday."

Except, Robert doesn't seem to be listening.

"Are you involved with my daughter?" he asks sharply and without preamble.

"I'm sorry?"

"You and Mary... Are you seeing each other?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Matthew replies somewhat tersely.

"I'm her father."

He can't quite help what comes next.

"And some father you've been."

It only serves to make Robert more angry.

"I don't know what you think makes you entitled to come here and-"

He cuts him off, "I _care_ about Mary, alright? It doesn't matter if we're seeing each other or not, I actually care what happens to her which seems a whole lot more than can be said for _you_ right now."

Furious, Robert grapples for a way to respond and Matthew take advantage of his stunned silence to continue undeterred, "You realise that she's being put through all of this because of what you've done. And it's not just now – it's been years like this, placating Carlisle, holding herself back to make up for your mistakes."

For a long moment, this gives Robert good reason to pause.

"...Is that what you really think?"

"Yes."

Another lengthy pause.

"Right."

His mouth remains half open as Robert reaches for the next words.

Eventually, they come, "I brought some... papers."

"Papers?"

He pulls them from a worn briefcase on the floor hesitantly, picking at the sides.

"You'll have to be... careful with them. They have information about Downton. From the crisis."

"Company accounts?"

"And notes. My own and James Gordon's, what I have of Pamuk's."

"James Gordon?"

"Patrick's father. He worked with me at Downton." And then he answers the question Matthew wants to ask, "He died just before I stepped back from things with the company. Heart attack – I tried to fire him and it didn't go well."

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't want to... pry," Matthew replies awkwardly.

"You didn't. I offered." Robert moves on to the next thing, "Was there anything else you needed?"

Carefully, Matthew asks, "Do you have access to your voicemail and phone records from that time?"

"Phone records? Why?" He looks concerned.

"I think it's phone hacking, Robert."

"No..."

"It's the best explanation. It's why he hasn't published, even now."

He still doesn't quite accept the suggestion, "I would've known..."

But Matthew doesn't let up, "Just give me the chance to look into it."

Robert considers this, taking a deep and tired breath.

"...I suppose."

A nod, "Thank you."

"I don't have anything like that here, but I'll see to it that you get them."

"I'd appreciate that. I'm sure I don't have to remind you to be careful how you go about it."

"No, you don't," Robert tells him a little firmly. He then asks a little warily, "You really think it could have come from phone hacking?"

Delicately, Matthew probes "Well, do you remember using voicemail at all back then... back when Pamuk was first around?"

"I... I don't know. It's possible – we tried to be careful but it was before any of us knew we had to be wary about that sort of thing."

"If you give me the records, I'll see what I can find. It's at least worth looking into it."

Matthew leaves the club shortly after without offering Robert a particularly warm goodbye. He can see in Robert's vaguely uncomfortable expression that his measured derision doesn't sit well with the elder Crawley.

He can only be glad. It's about time Robert Crawley got to grips with the scale of the problem.

It's _his_ problem after all.

.

**Day 3**

.

_**Top staffers missing from Downing Street as reports of rift continue**_

_After numerous reports of tension growing within the Prime Minister's Downing Street office, it has been confirmed that neither Chief of Staff Richard Carlisle nor his Deputy, Mary Crawley have been sighted reporting for duty at Number Ten. _

Photo: Mary Crawley leaves her London flat early on Wednesday. Despite appearing at various media events alongside boss Charles Carson, she did not visit her office within Downing Street at any time throughout the day.

_While the Prime Minister has been quick to hose down any rumours of a rift, this revelation gives weight to claims that..._

.

It had been Anna, in the end, to convince her.

"You've seen the stories and I've been keeping my eye out – I don't think Carlisle's going to show his face at the office. You have too many allies here."

She'd scoffed, "Not according to the papers."

"Not according to the papers owned by Richard Carlisle," Anna had pointed out.

Despite her reservations, she takes heed of Anna's advice and shows up at the office bright and early on a Thursday morning, bracing herself for a third day of Richard Carlisle-produced madness.

She only feels a little bit sick when she steps behind her desk for the first time since Carlisle had her pressed against it.

She does her best to brush it off.

The day itself isn't actually as disastrous as she'd been anticipating – she's in and out with Carson throughout the day who seems determined to keep her close at hand (and, she imagines, as far as possible from any notions of leaving his employ) and Daisy is under strict instructions to fob off any calls from the media to Anna, who Mary has to admit is doing a pretty excellent job

She's surprised, however, when she returns to her office later in the afternoon to find Elsie Hughes waiting for her.

"Miss Robinson here said that you were expected any minute. I thought I'd wait," Mrs Hughes explains, rising from a chair by the door, "Might I come in for a moment?"

Mary's relationship with Downing Street's Cabinet Secretary has never been a close one and with all that's been going on, she finds herself unusually unsure of how to proceed. Hesitantly, she waves her in.

"I won't stay for long," she tells Mary as she follows her into the room, "It's just... I'm sure that you won't be surprised that I've been asked to comment on some of these stories about the state of things here in the office."

"I'm afraid to say I'm not. I'm sorry if they've been harassing you."

Mrs Hughes seems largely unconcerned, "It will always be part of the job – and I haven't given them anything to work with so far."

"I appreciate that."

Clasping her hands in front of her body primly, she carefully explains, "I thought I might stop by to say that if... you _did_ want me to say anything to them – on or off the record – I would be willing to do that."

Mary's long, puzzled sort of pause makes her surprise plain.

Taking in this response, Mrs Hughes goes on, "I know we haven't always seen eye to eye but you're good at what you do, Miss Crawley. Richard Carlisle is a bully and at times a tyrant and I would be pleased to see the back of him."

Less tentative than before, Mary replies, "I'll talk to Anna – she's mostly handling the media from this end but maybe we could use your help."

"Whatever you need."

And as Mrs Hughes leaves, Mary finds herself smiling.

.

_**Carlisle is a 'tyrant'**_

_A well-placed source inside Charles Carson's office at Ten Downing Street has spoken out to call the former chairman of the Britannia News Group and the Prime Minister's current Chief of Staff, Richard Carlisle, a tyrant._

_The non-partisan source has come out in support of the view that while that has been tension brewing among many of Mr Carson's staff, most of the problems could be traced back to Carlisle and his handling of affairs in his capacity as the PM's most senior political operative._

_Speaking exclusively to _The Guardian_..._

_._

_**Claims of nepotism after suggestions that Crawley influenced Downing Street staffing**_

_As the Downing Street staffing scandal continues, a source has today revealed to _The Times_ that Conservative Party Chairman Robert Crawley influenced Charles Carson's major appointments within his office, shortly after the general election 2 years ago._

_While no further information has been provided on the nature of the Chairman's involvement, this revelation appears to suggest that Crawley's daughter, Mary, was given her position as Deputy Chief of Staff and has enjoyed unusually wide-ranging powers in this role as a result of her father stepping in._

_Since assuming her position at Downing Street, Miss Crawley has..._

.

**Day 4**

.

When she slips out of the office with Anna that night, the photographers are predictably right where they were when she'd arrived that morning.

And each time she'd come in and out throughout the day.

It doesn't let up.

The cameras flash as their car goes by, leaving Mary to duck her head and Anna to roll her eyes.

"What I don't understand is why they _care_," Mary grouses, "Why is the picture of me leaving the office any better than the one they almost certainly took of me yesterday? Or the day before?"

"You know perfectly well why they're here. They're waiting for you to slip. Or waiting for something to change – either or," Anna reminds her lightly.

"They'll wait a long time before I slip."

"Oh I know," Anna seems to find this amusing. More carefully, she asks, "Have you spoken to Matthew much?"

"A little."

"Bates says he's a bit down."

This makes Mary sigh. "I haven't seen him since Tuesday at your flat. The press is everywhere and it's making life impossible."

"It won't be for long."

"Easy for you to say."

"I know it is," Anna concedes, "But I know a thing or two about having your relationship dragged through the press and I'd say you're doing the right thing."

"Carlisle has photographers on him most of the time as well – I feel pretty awful dragging him into it. I just wish..."

The careful words trail off absently.

"You just wish what?"

"I wish I could get Carlisle to leave him out of it for a while."

Anna considers this briefly, "He doesn't seem to have much to run on Matthew in the papers, at least there's that. The cameras are only tailing him to try and catch _you_ out."

A thought begins to form. "You're right."

Anna picks up on something in Mary's inflection, "...And?"

"And Carlisle's only doing this because he thinks he has something on me and Matthew, but not enough to publish. If I could divert his attentions somehow..."

"It's beginning to sound like you have something in mind."

Mary lets her lips quirk at the ends. A small, knowing smirk. "Maybe I do."

.

**Day 5**

.

_**Crawley in secret relationship with father's right hand man**_

_Mary Crawley, whose name has become well known in recent days as a major player in tensions brewing within the Prime Minister's office, has been caught in a secret liaison with Patrick Gordon – the right hand man to her father and Tory Chairman, Robert Crawley._

_The pair, who are believed to have had an on-off relationship for a number of years, looked decidedly 'on' as they tried to sneak out of a small London restaurant, with photos showing Mr Gordon holding a protective arm around Miss Crawley as they made their escape._

Photo: Miss Crawley and Mr Gordon leave Bar 61in London

_Reports of their involvement would seem to confirm Mary's close working relationship with her father's office inside CCHQ, after a source revealed yesterday that Lord Crawley intervened in Downing Street staffing decisions, possible earning her the role of Deputy Chief of Staff..._

_._

"What are you doing here?" From the doorway, Anna sounds decidedly unimpressed.

Matthew's eyes flicker upward briefly, "Working."

She seems to take this as some kind of invitation and swans into the room.

"It's after 7."

"It's hardly unheard of."

"It's a _Saturday_."

"I had things to finish."

She sizes him up, "You're sulking."

"I'm not."

"You're _sulking_. You know fine and well that Mary set up the stories with Patrick to get the press off your back for a while and now you're repaying the favour by sulking."

"I'm not sulking."

"Whatever you say," Anna smiles.

Feeling a little guilty, Matthew finally turns from a computer screen that had become rather interesting the minute Anna had arrived at his office. He tries to arrange his features into something resembling a smile before asking, "Besides, what brings _you_ here? Aren't you worried about Carlisle's spies?"

"I came by to drag Bates home at a reasonable time; the press has already had its day with that one, so I don't think a picture of me at your door will go far. He mentioned you were still here."

"Even _Bates_ is out to get me now?" he asks, jokingly petulant.

"He's concerned about you, Matthew. He doesn't like to see you so flat."

"It's just... It's just a hard few days, it'll blow over."

"It will," Anna nods, reassuring him more than agreeing with him. "You still haven't seen her?"

"No."

"You know, all this 'being careful' business when it comes to Carlisle and his paparazzi – it was supposed to make you wary, not to stop you from seeing each other all together."

"Yeah, well when they don't leave you alone for a minute of the day, it gets pretty hard to find a way around them."

Anna shoots him a look. "Mary works for the Prime Minister and has half of Protection Command wrapped around her finger – she might not be able to make a habit of it, but she can duck a few photographers if she really needs to. _You_, on the other hand, just lost most of your media shine thanks to the stories about Patrick; I certainly didn't see any cameras waiting when I got in, so I think you'll be able to fly under the radar, at least for now."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you should take the chance while you've got it."

With this, she flounces out of the room on an impish smile, saying something about dragging Bates away and leaving Matthew with his thoughts.

It doesn't take long.

He picks up his phone.

.

The text message had been vague and cryptic but Mary had felt the first buzz of excitement when she'd realised what it meant.

_Just like the night in Newcastle_ it had promised, and as she collects a card key from the hotel front desk, enough to give her roof access, she has to smile. It's the same hotel chain they'd used on their trip north-east, the same logos she'd stared at on a monogrammed dressing gown as she'd so unpleasantly spilled her guts into one of their shiny toilets, the same name above the door as the place she'd first laid her soul bare to Matthew Crawley on a cold Newcastle night.

All without so much as leaving the City of London.

Checking once again that she's been able to shake the trail of photographers that had taken to following her around (long gone she notes, mostly thanks to Lang and his superior abilities), Mary then heads for the lift and jabs at the appropriate button a little impatiently. When the lift has taken her as far as it will go, she takes the last leg of stairs briskly, pulling her coat tighter when she steps through the door at the top and out into the cold.

"Fancy meeting you here." The voice comes across the open expanse and she hears him before she spots him by the edge on the other side.

She smiles, "It's all very cloak and dagger this, you know. I thought I was going to need a secret password at the door."

"I thought about it, but then I used up all my best material on the text message to get you here."

She just laughs. For the first time in days, she finally feels simply, plainly _content_.

"Come here." Matthew laughs lightly as well and Mary folds into his embrace eagerly. In the cold air of the hotel roof, the easy twist of his arms around her and the press of a kiss to the top of her head warm her from inside.

"Sorry about the madness," she apologises after a moment, her words gentle as she enjoys the feeling of standing close for the first time in days.

"It's alright."

"No. It's not," she says firmly, "Anna already told me that it's been bothering you."

A scoff, "She was quick to throw me under the bus."

"She's just worried about you. She's an uncommonly good person like that."

"Well for all of Anna's good intentions, it's not all the drama that's bothering me A short pause lends weight to the words as he continues on, "It's _this_... it's us. Not seeing you."

"I'm sorry," Mary replies with notes of defensiveness, "You know if there were any other way I would-"

He cuts her off, "I _know_ that, I don't question that. And we can still work this out."

Without stepping back from the warmth of his body, she asks almost hopefully, "Does that mean you've found something?"

This seems to dampen his spirits a little. "Not exactly – nothing that will help with Carlisle anyway."

"Then what?"

"Enough time has passed to leave your father's phone records incomplete; there's what _could _be some suspicious activity on his account, but it all leads back to various untraceable pre-paid phones that have been out of service for years. If your father actually wanted it to go public there would be enough for some kind of investigation, but he doesn't and there's nothing I can tie directly back to Carlisle."

"Of course there isn't," she shoots back with disappointment, fixing her eyes on the ground.

"You haven't come up with anything either?"

Shortly, "No, nothing yet."

"So we're... exactly where we were before?" A weariness leaks into his tone.

"That's how it would seem."

They're both quiet for a long time, standing more like statues still pressed together in the thin night air.

"This is how it's going to be for a while, then," Mary's words are a little hollow to her own ears, "Occasional moments like these, having to call in Protection Command every time we want to so much as see each other."

"You'd know better than me."

She rolls her head to the sky, "I'm so sick of Richard Carlisle. Of my own bloody father."

"I know," Matthew is gentle with his sympathy and one had goes across to her cheek to bring her eyes back in line with his own, "I know."

"I just... Thank you," she smiles up at him, "You've put up with a lot."

"It's most definitely worth it."

She presses one side of her face to his shoulder and appreciates for a moment the feeling of standing still.

"You know..." he begins slyly, after a while, "As nice as it is standing out here, we do actually have a hotel room for the night."

"We do?"

"How do you think I got us onto the roof?"

"Oh Matthew Crawley, how I underestimate you sometimes."

He extends a hand that she accepts with a secret smile, allowing herself to be lead back to the door. And for the next few hours at least, she tries not to worry about it.

.

**Day 6**

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Sunday 19 August 9.13 AM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Testing

Testing.

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Sunday, 19 August 9.15 AM

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: Testing

You know, I'm all for your idea of covert communication and avoiding RC's ever watchful eye – but son of a god, Matthew? Really?

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Sunday, 19 August 9.16 AM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Re: Testing

What, you're not a fan of Greek mythology? And here I thought it was son of a god was a fitting sort of moniker.

This way RC can be our Sea Monster.

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Sunday, 19 August 9.18 AM

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: Testing

Oh lord. Next time, I'm picking the code names.

But see? It's working. Hurry up and put your phone away because we have slightly less than two hours before they come and forcibly kick us out of this room and I plan to use our time wisely...

.

**Day 7**

Mary had known when it had first been suggested and had known when her mother had tried just about every trick in the book to persuade her to come that there was an ulterior motive behind an invitation to dinner at the Big House that night.

It didn't matter that it was the start of a busy working week, didn't matter that she was still juggling one of the bigger media stories of the year and it certainly didn't matter that she was in no mood to face the likes of Edith, smarmy with her commentary on Mary's current predicament (_I saw you in the paper again today, it must be so very difficult to have half of Westminster questioning your ability to do your job. However do you continue on?_). No, it didn't matter and Mary had to come.

It had helped, of course, when her mother had gone to lengths to assure her that her dear Papa would be otherwise engaged. With a few grumbles and the knowledge that she wouldn't have to go toe to toe with her father – whose nerves were slowly becoming more than a little frayed as Carlisle's little stalemate had spilled into its second week – she'd shown up at her family home right on time, photographers be damned.

It's not until after their meal and after Edith clears her plate saying something about seeing to the children that she finds out what those ulterior motives really are.

"I've been reading the newspapers, you know," Cora gives her a knowing, careful sort of look.

"I certainly didn't think you'd be _avoiding_ them."

"You've been in them rather a lot these last few days."

Mary gives her mother a tight smile, "That's Richard Carlisle for you."

"So it _is_ Carlisle?"

Somewhat coldly, she asks, "Papa didn't even tell you that much?"

"Not in so many words."

"Well of course it is." Her words are unaffected by any concern.

"Is any of it true?"

A shrug, "There's enough truth to it to make trying to sue him for anything a waste of time."

There is a pause while Cora purses her lips and seems to measure her response. Like Mary, she is adept at concealing emotion and at carefully managing her reaction to any given situation, even if she does choose to do so less often than her daughter.

"It's your father... isn't it? Carlisle's making you suffer for something _he_ did."

"...It's not as simple as that," Mary tries to explain uneasily.

"But at the heart of it?"

"It starts with Papa, yes."

Cora's expression hardens into something more serious, the words seeming to stir something within her.

"I know... bits and pieces of this story," she tries to explain for Mary, "Your father has been careful to leave me out of it."

"It's better that way."

Cora gives her a conciliatory sort of smile, "For a long time, I would have agreed with you."

"And now?" Mary raises an eyebrow.

"I don't like seeing you in trouble like this, Mary," she wavers, "I- I don't like seeing it destroy your father either."

Mary can't help the way her response sound vaguely unimpressed, "Surely you of all people wouldn't feel sympathy for that man. Not after all he's done."

Again, her mother's answering expression is soft and considered. "I do and I don't. It's not easy for me..." After a pause, Cora adds gently, "What concerns me more is the impact this is all having on _you_. As much as you try to say all of the appropriate things – as _angry_ as you might allow yourself to be – I'm fairly sure you're allowing all of this in order to protect him."

"Am I?" she bites back, almost stung by the truth behind her mother's words.

"I think you are."

For a long moment, Mary says nothing.

And then, "I don't know what else I could be expected to do. I'm in this as well Mama."

"In it... how?"

"I've known from the beginning. I've been there, I've... helped him."

"Did he... ask you to help? Did he make you a part of it?" For the first time, there are notes of accusation in her tone.

"I suppose," she replies a little coolly. "It wasn't just him – it was James who brought me in each time and James who only saw me as a means to save his own skin."

Cora considers this for a long time. "I always wondered why your father fell out with him so bitterly."

"But he doesn't get to do that!" Mary breaks out, "He doesn't get to sit by while it suits him for me to fight all of his battles then act as though he's sorry once it's over. I know that he fought with James for me but it was too little, too late."

"It troubles him, you know," Cora leans toward her, placing a cautious hand on her arm.

"Oh I'm sure it does. But I'm sure it troubles him all the more that I've allowed all of this to drag on as it has this last week – I'm sure it troubles him that I've not come up with a way to tidy up his mess this time nice and neatly. He always did prefer not to think about it, not to have it hanging over his head."

It's rare that she be so candid – but something about her mother's apparent empathy for the man who has done so much wrong by them both, something about the stress of the last few days, something that has been a part of her for far, far too long leaves her unwilling to filter her response.

"I don't think it's that Mary, I really don't."

"Then what?" she asks, angrily.

"I think – maybe even for the first time – he's sorry for what he's done. It's eating at him, seeing you vilified like this."

Wearily, Mary just shakes her head. "It's been four years Mama, _four years_. I certainly can't applaud him for finally feeling some responsibility if it's taken him four years to allow himself to own up to his part in it."

"I know and I understand. I just thought it was worth saying – there may come a time when you're ready to talk to him about this and it will help to know that he's sorry for his mistakes."

"You sound as if you're on his side."

Cora is firm, "I'm not on a side – I don't know nearly enough about the whole situation to have a _side_ but I care for you as my daughter and him as my husband so I wanted to make sure that certain things were said."

"So you do still... care for him then?" Mary presses carefully.

"Of course I do."

"But it's been so long – you've essentially lived in New York for years and after all that happened..."

It's a genuine sort of enquiry – Mary really does want to understand how her mother feels.

"He's my husband," she replies firmly, "The last few years have not been easy but I cannot ignore that fact. It's different when you're married, when you've truly loved someone and when you've had to face the absolute hardest of times together..."

Mary is only glad when she doesn't say Sybil's name aloud.

"Do you ever think you could come home – back to England?" she asks, almost hopefully.

A soft smile, "I think I could." She then adds, "But you should know – what I hope you take from this conversation if nothing else is – that I am in your corner Mary. Whether I am in New York or whether I'm in London, I hate seeing you in a situation like this and I will do whatever I can to support you."

A moment passes where Mary says nothing.

Eventually she offers her mother a smile, "...Thank you Mama."

"You are stronger than this Mary, I know that you'll come out a survivor no matter what happens."

"I hope so," she looks to her mother wistfully. She's a little lighter when she goes on, "Otherwise, I might be begging you for a job at Levinson Brothers' office here in London."

Cora laughs, "Maybe I'll join you."

Mary quirks an eyebrow at the comment but doesn't get the chance to press further when Edith returns to the room and the subject is swiftly changed. She doesn't think on it again for the rest of her visit.

In fact, she doesn't think on it again until she finds herself in bed that night (alone, again) and she gets caught up in wondering about her mother's unusual generosity towards her father, her almost sentimental concessions towards his character and that final, sly little comment and what it all might mean.

Mary can't help but wonder if there's something different about this trip. If it might be more than the token show of face across the Atlantic that they've become in recent years.

She falls asleep feeling hopeful.

.

**Day 8**

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Tuesday, 21 August 11.25 AM

To: andromeda12

Subject: My mother

My mother has apparently been following all of the Sea Monster's stories in the news.

Typically enough, my name hasn't come up once and she's still calling to check that I'm not being worn down by it all. Apparently she's _concerned_.

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Tuesday, 21 August 11.54 AM

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: My mother

Are we actually referring to him as the Sea Monster now? I don't remember agreeing to this.

Sounds like our mothers are on the same wavelength though, my mother pulled me in last night to give me a talking to on the whole issue despite only having half of the story. And don't get me started on my grandmother...

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Tuesday, 21 August 12.17 PM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Re: My mother

Isn't the whole point of these email addresses to be sure he doesn't have any access to our communication? I thought it would be safer not to tempt fate and actually write it out here in black and white.

And what has your grandmother been saying?

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Tuesday, 21 August 12.21 PM

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: My mother

There is a difference between hacking some voicemails by using a default password and hoping that like 90% of the population, the person whose privacy you're flagrantly encroaching upon has been too busy with other things to change it and legitimately using computer trickery to not only track down two otherwise unremarkable email accounts and then accessing the protected emails that have been sent between them.

Granny called this morning to express her concern over my handling of SM's media storm. Like everyone else, she complained about it dragging on so long then asked if I wanted her help as a seasoned media expert and figure. No matter how I tried to explain it to her, she didn't want to listen.

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Tuesday, 21 August 12.42 PM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Re: My mother

Sounds like my mother and your grandmother could be the best of friends...

.

**Day 9 **

.

_**Does Robert Crawley have questions to answer?**_

_Opinion_

_With revelations surfacing recently that Robert Crawley may have used his authority as the Conservative Party's Chairman to make high-level appointments within Downing Street, the question must now be asked: when will Lord Crawley answer serious questions about his conduct since receiving his peerage in 2006?_

_According to reliable Westminster sources, Crawley imposed himself upon Charles Carson's choices for senior positions, with the well-known end result that his daughter Mary was appointed the Deputy Chief of Staff. While Mary has her own battles to fight, embroiled in controversy about her own conduct while at Number Ten, consideration must also be given to the actions of the Tory Chairman who despite clearly demonstrating impaired judgement in this case, has been responsible for a number of important party decisions since assuming this position in 2010._

_Granted a peerage while flying high as the chairman of the Downton Group, Crawley initially juggled both roles until sensationally and unexpectedly turning his back on Downton partway through 2009. Before his decision to walk away, Downton had weathered the storm of the financial crisis and like many of its kind, lost significant sums to poor financial management. Many were surprised when Downton emerged from this period largely unscathed and even more when Crawley announced his plans to step back from all aspects of managing the company._

_It's worth asking therefore, what is it that drove Crawley to commit himself fully to politics? What secrets and motivations has he carried throughout his political career, influencing the important decisions he makes each day?_

_In his time as Conservative Chairman..._

_._

From: perseus01

Sent: Wednesday, 22 August 7.14 AM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Opinion piece

Did you see the piece in _The Times_ this morning?

Is this what I think it is?

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Wednesday, 22 August 7.16 AM

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: Opinion piece

I saw it.

I'm pretty sure it's another warning. He hasn't explicitly said _anything_ that isn't on the public record but it's enough to remind us what he knows.

Maybe he thinks Papa is about to turn – it's what he's been waiting for after all.

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Wednesday, 22 August 7.17 AM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Re: Opinion piece

Jesus Christ.

_Is_ he about to turn?

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Wednesday, 22 August 7.20 AM

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: Opinion piece

I don't know. I know I should be above it but I haven't exactly spoken to him this last week.

Have you gotten anywhere with the phone company? I don't know how much more time we're going to have to look into this.

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Wednesday, 22 August 7.24 AM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Re: Opinion piece

Possibly. I've been able to get more complete records from the timeframe we're looking at and I might have more on the phone SM used to access the messages. I'll hurry the phone company along as soon as they open for business this morning.

Do you want me to talk to him?

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Wednesday, 22 August 7.31 AM

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: Opinion piece

Good. I'm also chasing something down with Patrick about his father; I've been trying to work out if there's anything there on James Gordon's part – we might have more to work with if I can get Patrick to give us his records as well.

And I appreciate the offer, but if anyone needs to speak to Papa, it's me. If we're still stuck by the day's end, I'll give him a call.

.

It's not often, Matthew Crawley knows, that one looks up from their desk to find the Prime Minister standing at their door.

He's fairly certain there's a look of complete shock – wide eyes and slack jaw – that hijacks his features the moment his brain registers that it is indeed Charles Carson standing patiently, watching him with polite interest as he shuffles through endless piles of papers; phone records, accounts and scribbled handwritten notes. Though he's had the honour of being in the presence of his nation's leader on various earlier occasions, he's never before enjoyed a private audience.

Especially not a private audience in his own little corner of Whitehall.

He quickly jumps to his feet, "Prime Minister!"

"Might I come in Mr Crawley?"

"Come in?" The words almost seem foreign to his own ears. After a beat, the question finally registers, "Yes. Yes, absolutely – come in."

Stepping over the threshold, Carson turns back to the well presented officer about to follow him in, "You can wait out here. I'll be fine."

He steps inside and closes the door, all while Matthew finds himself still rooted to the spot.

"I'm sorry to just appear at your door like this; you must understand that I so rarely get the chance to make impromptu visits like these and that I have to take my chances while I can get them."

"Of course," Matthew replies, still grappling to find a part of himself that's more than just incoherently surprised. Gathering together his resolve, he's a little more reasoned when he asks a moment later, "What can I do for you Prime Minister? Would you like to sit?"

Carson pulls out the offered chair, "Yes indeed, thank you."

It's only when Carson takes his place across the desk that Matthew realises just what it is he has splashed across it. With the day drawing on, he's spent a big part of his evening pouring over the haze of paper he's amassed in his week investigating Carlisle and Downton and in the face of his surprise, it's now laid bare before the Prime Minister, plain for him to see.

Hastily, he tries to sweep some of it to one side, "I'm sorry about the mess Prime Minster, let me just tidy some of this away."

Carson's hand coming out across the desk stops him mid-move. "It's quite alright. Please leave things as they are."

"Oh, alright." Awkwardly, he straightens and then takes once again to his seat.

With an unreadable sort of expression – the expression that has outdone many an opponent during Prime Minister's Questions and earned him a great deal of respect up and down the country – Carson asks, "You're looking into things at Downton?"

The alarmed surprised that jolts through Matthew at the comment is quickly becoming familiar. Across the desk, the Prime Minister just gives him a look that tells him this much has again been plain on his features and that there is next to no point trying to offer him anything but the truth.

So instead, he gives up and decides just to tell the truth.

"Yes."

"Does it have anything to do with the bevy of misleading stories I've been seeing in the press all week claiming some insight into the inner workings of my office?"

"It does."

"I thought as much."

Carefully, Matthew asks, "Is that why you're here?"

A stoic nod, "I'm afraid it is. At least in part." Carson takes a moment just to assess Matthew where he sits, and Matthew feels the weight of his eyes acutely. Eventually, he continues, "It's not easy for me, having to sit by as all of this has played out. I've said all the right things – all the things Mary wanted me to say about being consultative on all important decisions including staffing, that I have full faith in _all _of my staff members – but it still troubles me."

"I understand," Matthew replies solemnly.

He doesn't get the chance to say anything further as brows-knitted, Carson explains, "I'm not a fool, Mr Crawley, I know it's not just been the last week and I'm certainly not under any illusions that there isn't a much bigger issue at work here."

"But still, you've let it go on?" It's not an accusation, but a genuine question. It feels like one Carson wants him to ask.

"You must understand how hard it's been for me. Since the day I was elected – possibly even before – there has been something hanging over Mary's head. The only way I have known how to help her is to do as she's asked – to let Carlisle have the job he wanted, to never ask questions, to allow her the space to handle these situations as she sees fit..." The words trail off as he tries to better describe his predicament, eventually continuing carefully and evenly, "Mary is not naive enough to think that I know nothing of what went on with her father or of how it affects her now, but she's also not selfish enough to have ever put me in a position where I've had to become acquainted with the finer details. I am forever stuck in between wanting to support her as the man who has known her all her life, and respecting her wishes and protecting us both in my position of power by retaining some air of plausible deniability."

Matthew has never seen the Prime Minister quite in this way. Carson is so clearly weighted down by his conflict but not in the same way he has seen him weighed down by the problems of a nation – this is personal, this is bone-deep.

Urgently, with an expression tinged by the edges of despair, Carson wonders, "I have to ask myself now, have I done the right thing? In all the time I've turned a blind eye, when I allowed Richard Carlisle to take the position that she deserved, allowed him even more power over her without saying a word... Have I done the right thing?"

"You said it yourself, you did what she _wanted_. It's such a difficult situation and I don't think it would have made her life any simpler if you'd acted differently. She was protecting her family... protecting herself, even."

"But did _you_ just sit by and do what she _wanted_, instead of what you thought was right?"

He thinks about this for a moment, giving Carson's question the consideration it deserves.

Then, "No."

Because he didn't. Not in the end.

In the end he pushed and fought and struggled with her until she told him the whole story.

"And _that's_ why I'm here, Mr Crawley," Carson gives him a look that is heavy with its significance, "I didn't think you were the person in her life not to do what was _right _for her."

"It's- It's not like _that_," he replies, almost automatically as the implications of Carson's comment register.

But there's an amused smile on the man's face, "Yes it is. And there's no point wasting your time trying to convince me otherwise – I think _I_ knew before you did."

"Mary told you?"

"Not exactly. But I was on hand to give her a push when it was needed." A knowing sort of look is aimed in Matthew's direction, "I trust you enjoyed the champagne."

And _again_, Matthew almost chokes from surprise.

He hates himself a little bit for looking like such a dolt, but mostly he can't believe he's hearing these words from the Prime Minister's mouth.

"Don't worry Mr Crawley, I'm certainly not interested in the details."

"It's Matthew, please," he interjects as he rides out the wave of discomfort.

"_Matthew_, then. You must know that Mary is very dear to me," he explains more softly, "And though I have no claim to her as my own, I like to think that I look out for her."

He's quick to agree, "Of course."

Carson goes on, "She _cares_ for you Matthew, a great deal. Perhaps more than I've ever seen her care for anyone."

Matthew's mouth goes dry. This time it's not just about the man sitting across from him and is equally about the enormity of the suggestion he's made.

"I came here because I _think _you are the person in her life who will always do what is right, but the reality is that I don't _know_ Matthew. I want to _know_."

"I am!" he's quick to assure Carson earnestly, without giving himself time to consider or measure his response, "Of course I am. I _always_ want to be that person."

He's had this sort of conversation before. Sat across from a man that thinks himself Mary's father and been asked to explain.

Last time, he'd told Robert Crawley to mind his own business.

This time feels very different.

At his words, Carson takes a long time just to look at him and to consider. "I will... take that under advisement." But the small sort of smile that whispers across his features seems to suggest that perhaps Matthew has said the right thing.

Looking over the mess on Matthew's desk – the papers, Carson adds, "Am I to understand that you're helping her then? That you're trying to put a stop to Mr Carlisle with all these... investigations?"

"Yes," Matthew nods, before offering what information he feels he can, "I'm sure I can find something that not only proves that Carlisle doesn't have the evidence he claims but also incriminates him in something even bigger. After the op-ed about Robert this morning though, I'm beginning to worry that I'm running out of time."

Carson even looks a little sympathetic. "I thought it seemed that things were escalating."

"Mary worries that her father might be about to give Carlisle what he wants. The story was to make him panic."

"He _wouldn't_... would he?" This seems to leave Carson with a sour taste.

"I don't know..." The words trail off with distracted frustration as Matthew peers again at the documents before him looking for some kind of answer. "I can't say – I can't get a read of him even now."

For some unknown reason, the words sort of buzz between Matthew's ears as soon as he's said them aloud.

_I can't say – I can't get a read of him even now._

_I can't say._

There's a familiar sort of lilt to them – a pattern of speech that his brain seems to pick up on without him consciously thinking about it.

And then.

_I can't say._

_...Because I can say that now, can't I?_

And more.

_Love you. Because I can say that now, can't I? I love you._

His jaw goes slack.

"I know how to prove it's phone hacking."

.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **This is the part where I subtly mention that my background is in crime procedurals, that past experience will show that I am not above borrowing (ahem) plot ideas/devices from Sorkin and that I did mention way back when I posted the first chapter that this would be an eleven (ish) piece fic.

Shout out to my darling **Tadpole24**, who as always, has worked to make this better.

* * *

**Eleven**

.

"_I don't understand," her voice wavers, "What's going on? _Why?_"_

_He sounds rushed, "I can't explain very well right now. I'll tell you more when I see you."_

"_But when will that be? When... when are they going to let you go?" These are questions that usually sound so assured from the lips of Mary Crawley._

"_Soon, I hope." And after a moment, "But you should know Mary, I'm doing this for you."_

.

It's not a particularly long trip between Matthew's office and Mary's flat but in the back of Carson's escorted car, one knee bouncing with anticipation, it seems to take an age.

Because now he _knows_.

He knows how they're going to catch Carlisle out.

He knows the end is near.

His knee continues to work.

When they turn one of the last corners, no one's surprised when there's a stray camera or two dotted along Mary's street and one of Carson's police officers makes it his job to get out and wave them off. As they make their second pass by the door, Matthew is able to step from the car and Carson, perhaps a little ruefully, wishes him well.

Matthew knows well that Carson, too, wishes he was coming inside, wishes that he could finally know what Carlisle has held over Mary for so long and what it is that Matthew has realised so suddenly, but he also seems to know that this is not the time to get involved. With a wistful smile, he waves Matthew on his way and directs the driver to take him home.

"I hope you're right, Matthew. Whatever it is you're on to – I hope you're right."

"So do I."

"Look out for her."

The door then closes and the car continues on its way, the tinted windows winking at streetlights as it disappears from view.

He hurries to Mary's front door and knocks.

"That was quick," she says as she pulls back the door only a few moments later.

He'd called her from his office, called her the minute it had all fallen into place, and she'd known he was on his way.

Standing tiredly on the other side of the threshold she looks a little more ragged than Matthew has come to expect, half-dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, with her glasses on and hair scraped back. It's the informal Mary the rest of the world so rarely sees.

"I was going through some of the notes," she half explains as she shows him inside, "I was hoping something would appear before I absolutely had to make that call to Papa."

But that doesn't seem to matter anymore.

Standing over her table, documents spread every which way, he finally begins, "I know how we can get him."

"How?" she asks more evenly.

All of the urgency from that moment alone with Carson that he'd realised – that same burn of adrenaline that had overcome him on the spot when he'd made the final connection – rises up once more when he starts to explain more fully, "A few days ago, you said it in an email like it was a fact – you said that 90% of the population are supposedly 'too busy' to change their voicemail PIN numbers. Now that's a _sweeping _sort of comment to make without personal experience."

"And?" she asks tiredly.

"Well, have you ever changed your voicemail PIN?"

A little blankly, Mary explains, "I suppose I never really thought about it. My voicemails are set up to be sent directly to my phone."

But as soon as she says it, she seems to realise.

Unprotected voicemails.

A default PIN number.

Phone hacking.

_Carlisle_.

"It's not just my father," she shakes her head slowly from one side to the other.

Matthew continues the train of thought, explaining, "Carlisle heard the voicemail I left you around the day your mother arrived in London. I think that's why he confronted you."

_Hey, it's just me. It's nothing important, just ring me back and I'll come by your office later._

_Love you. Because I can say that now, can't I? I love you._

"He did," she begins slowly, "He just seemed to _know_ after that. I couldn't work it out..."

As her words trail off, he presses on, "I haven't been able to make the connection we need with your father's records but this happened just a few _weeks_ ago – if you can get your own records tonight, there might just be something there. Something tangible."

She looks at her watch – the evening creeping past nine pm – and sets her mouth in a firm line, "I have a friend pretty high up at BT who might be able to help us given the short notice. I'll give him a call."

.

He's almost vibrating on the spot as the PDF takes its time to open on her laptop screen.

It's had only taken those two words – _phone hacking_ – to send Mary's friend scrambling and twenty minutes for the document they'd been after to appear in her email inbox.

It's times like these Matthew can be grateful for the influence that their positions of power afford them.

The breath catches in his throat when the screen goes from empty grey to white and the list appears.

And then, "There's nothing."

"_What_?"

"These numbers calling in are all my own." Mary then points, "Those ones are my mobile number and that's _my_ line at Downing Street, _my _office. There's nothing else."

He can almost feel himself deflate – physically _deflate_ – as the words register in his mind.

He's reaching, the words a little desperate, "He couldn't have used your phone when you weren't at your desk?"

"Not without Daisy noticing," she tells him flatly. "And besides, I lock my office most of the time precisely because I don't trust him with these things."

Neither of them have very much to say as fingers twist and eyes dart around her flat, hollow with a sense of defeat.

Her voice tinny and far away, Mary remarks, "Some kind of circumstantial claim that he used my phone wouldn't be enough to call him off anyway – we need something concrete that links back to him in black and white before if we want to scare him enough to leave us alone."

"I know."

All of a sudden, he's exhausted. Embarrassed, frustrated and empty, he's overcome by this feeling that he just doesn't want to stand there a moment longer, that he wants to be at home or alone or _anywhere _but standing before Mary without answers and seemingly, without hope.

Because when it comes down to it, this – _Carlisle_ – is always going to be that one thing between them. Always going to be the elephant in the room and the anvil hanging over Mary's head.

And now there's nothing they can do about any of it.

Maybe with the benefit of a night's sleep it will seem silly but right there in that moment, Matthew can't bear the crushing disappointment of his idea coming to naught.

"I think I should go."

"What about the cameras?"

"Carson's police officer scared them off for the night under fear of obstruction charges. I doubt they'll have returned."

"Oh."

"I'll call a cab and catch it a few streets over, just in case."

She seems just as eager to be alone as Matthew, although unlike him, this air of reluctance has hung over her almost from the moment she'd let him in the door. He wonders if the stress of the past week might be bringing her down.

And again, he wishes there was more that he could do.

Their silence and his moves to return home seem to be the sum total of them in that moment. They look at each other despondently, he makes the call, hangs near her door awkwardly and then she shows him out when he decides it's his time to go.

The dark streets he walks to meet the taxi are empty and they seem as good a place as any to let out his dissatisfaction and his feet kick along the pavement with frustrated force. When the taxi appears, he gets in, grunts his address at the driver and slumps despondently in the back seat.

He's almost half of the way back home when his phone rings.

"Turn around and come back!"

"What?"

"Come back to my flat. Right now."

She hangs up and somewhat sluggishly – his mind still on its way to catching up – he gives his revised destination to the driver. "Sorry mate, it looks like I'm going to have to go back."

"Changed her mind, did she?" He gives Matthew a leer.

"Something like that."

This time, he doesn't dawdle.

.

"What is it?" Matthew asks as soon as she opens the door for the second time that night.

This time there's a tentative smile playing on her face, "I realised as you left that I don't ever _check_ my voicemail from my work line – they're saved straight to my mobile. I should have made the connection."

"Okay..." he follows along as he hears the familiar sound of the door locking behind him, "It's... something, but is it going to be enough?"

"It _is_. It's enough because I got a friend in security to send through the logs of outgoing calls from my line on those days my voicemails were accessed from the office."

He can't help but remark, "Jesus Mary, you have a _lot_ of people willing to run around for you at odd times of the day."

"Perks of the job. Besides, security's there and operating twenty four hours," she shrugs, before thrusting several sheets of paper under his nose.

"...What am I looking at?"

"The user ID." She points.

"The what?"

Too many steps in front of him for him to catch up, she sighs.

There's a second – just one short beat that passes between them – where he can't help but find her endearing. As when he arrived the first time, Mary looks ragged around the edges – as the night has worn on, even more hair has loosened from its pony tail but unlike his last trip through her door, there's frenetic optimism to colour her cheeks. The combination of it all is nothing short of adorable.

More slowly, she explains, "It's a security thing and a convenience thing – all of the phones within Number Ten can dial out from almost any of its dedicated phone lines. As staff, we've all been assigned default lines in and out, but if our line is in use for some reason or if it's an emergency, it's possible to override the system and to pick any of the other lines that are free."

It begins to make sense. "I think it might be the same in Bates' ministerial office..."

"Carlisle used _my_ line deliberately to cover his tracks but he did it from _his _phone," again she points to the piece of paper she's been wielding. "It'll be the same where you are; the parliamentary network uses hot-desking, so he has to log in with his personal account and password at his desk every time he comes and goes to use his phone, his usual phone line and his computer. The phone he used was logged in to _his_ account."

He snatches the paper from her hand.

Predictably, most of the calls from Mary's line come from the same ID, all attributed to 'crawleym', but on the day Matthew remembers leaving his rather smitten – and ultimately incriminating – message there's a single call from a different user.

'carlisler'

Matthew's eyes go wide. "It's Carlisle."

"Well, it definitely can't be _me_. That day, the time – that's the afternoon I went shopping with Mama and Edith; I'm on the security footage from when Edith's son was being carted out of the supermarket if Carlisle tries to suggest otherwise." The ghost of amusement plays on her features, "I never thought I'd be glad for the fact that Connor is a terror worthy of Gitmo."

"So... we've got him?" He can scarcely dare to hope.

She nods significantly, "He can't have known this sort of information existed. He must have thought we would have stopped at the phone records – after all, we almost did."

Her words almost choked with smug satisfaction and hard-fought, painfully-won victory, "You were right. And we've _got_ him."

.

"He's still not picking up." Mary's frustration is clear and her phone is tossed a little carelessly along the coffee table.

It's not the first time she's tried to call Richard Carlisle.

"Did you really think he would?"

"It's not ringing long enough, I think he's deliberately screening my calls."

"I wouldn't be surprised."

She's determined to see him.

The evening has drawn on so long it almost certainly can't be called evening any longer but with Carlisle avoiding the issue, Mary wants to do something about it all _nownownow_ – she wants to march out into the night, confront Carlisle in the face of his cowardice and to be done with it.

It's not that Matthew doesn't agree that it's absolutely about time they faced the issue head-on; it's just that he'd at least like to wait to face it in the morning.

He's never seen her like this before – not _this_ determined, never this driven that her ideas give way to all logic when logic has always been such a big part of what makes her who she is.

He knows, in part, that this is due to just how long she's struggled with Carlisle's hold over her and had it been him in this position for as many years as Mary, he'd probably want it out of the way too. But this doesn't seem to be the _only_ reason.

Matthew wonders if there might be something more.

"It's after eleven," he points out evenly, and not for the first time, "Would you not rather go at it fresh in the morning?

"The papers will already be out. We'll be behind the news cycle."

"By a few _hours_ – isn't this, after all, the day and age of the twenty four hour news cycle? His stories about you and your father will be gone before the day is out. You could tip of _The Mail _about the phone hacking and have him eviscerated before dinner if you so desired."

This distracts her, "It's not going to play like that."

"I know."

"I just need enough on him to get him to back off. The threat of mutually assured destruction."

"I know."

"I think we need to _go_."

"I _know_."

And so – because he's a bit of a fool for the persuasive powers of Mary Crawley, because she's so unshakably set on the idea and because he's never before seen this striking, almost haunted gleam in her eye – they march off into the night to confront Carlisle in the face of his cowardice and to be done with it.

.

It takes her a surprisingly short amount of time to track Carlisle down to the Britannia News Group head offices through means Matthew wonders might be legally... vague.

It's impressive of course; a strangely empowering sort of position for her to be in in life that she can locate almost any person – no matter how powerful – at almost any time. It ought to be an unnerving thought for those that find themselves on Mary's bad side but with hope that he'll never fall into this category, Matthew does allow himself to be (briefly) impressed.

Then he goes right back to being wary.

"You don't have to come," she'd told him blithely when he'd hesitated.

"I'm not letting you go on your own."

"I'm sure it will be fine."

Her words, that had come automatically and without consideration, had failed to convince him.

"I'd rather not find out. I mean, there's also a part of me that would rather we didn't march right into his evil lair in the middle of the night with the sole intention of picking a fight, but I'd prefer that to leaving you to front him alone."

This is how he finds himself in a lift, shoulder to shoulder with Mary clutching a manila folder to her chest and making his ascent to Richard Carlisle's office within the Britannia News building.

"I thought he was supposed to have stepped back from his position here," Matthew remarks as he watches the numbered floors tick by, "He can hardly control a media empire and command the halls of Number Ten at the same time."

"His share in the company is _supposedly_ in a blind trust – as much as he wanted the job at Downing Street he couldn't bear to part with his own little kingdom here so it was, in theory, the best way to keep things at arm's length. You know as well as I do though, even an arm's length is a generous sort of description of the distance he maintains from the inner workings of his precious papers."

If the last week and the scores of stories about Mary have shown him anything, it is of course that Richard Carlisle still has the power to dictate what his papers print.

But before he has the time to think much more on any of it, the doors to the lift open and reveal the dimmed executive floor – a vast expanse of expensively-furnished space bordered by a handful of impressive looking offices.

It's the very heart of one of the biggest media conglomerates in the world and the ease with which they were able to get to this point makes Matthew wonder if Carlisle might have been expecting them.

He gets his answer sooner than he thinks.

From one of the glassed offices comes the now instantly recognisable, smooth and repugnant voice, "I wondered when you'd get here."

He emerges from an office, his tie loosened and the top buttons of his shirt undone. The long night has worn him also.

Matthew can only watch as it all unfolds. He holds himself tightly on the spot, without really moving and without saying a great deal, hoping that, unlike last time, he won't make things endlessly worse.

"You would have known if you'd answered your phone," Mary is quick to point out.

"But that would have been too easy, would it not?" Carlisle smiles with the suggestion.

"At this point, your insouciance doesn't seem to matter one way or the other," she gives him a prim and practised smile, "It seems that we have found each other."

"Why yes we have."

They size each other up in a moment of stalemate.

"I see you've brought your little sidekick," Carlisle eventually adds with delight.

But Mary doesn't rise to the bait and her response is mild, "Oh please, you're going to have to do better than that Richard or I might worry you've lost your edge. That wasn't very intimidating."

"Oh Mary, once again you misunderstand me."

She catches him with a hard glare, "I don't think I do." Then she looks around the open space, still only half-lit by the surrounding offices and remarks, "You know, I was surprised to find you_ here_ of all places. I didn't think you'd be this obvious."

"Well it is, after all, my company. And what with all those dreadful stories in the newspapers that have been in the newspaper this week, I imagine there are a lot of people inside Downing Street re-evaluating their interests and career options." Slyly and very deliberately, he adds, "It's terrible what all those papers are saying – it's quite enough to drive someone entirely out of a job. But then you Mary won't have to worry about where you end up, not given what I've heard about-"

"Leave it," she cuts him off pointedly.

There's a moment where a meaningful look is passed between the two. There's a lot said by the way their eyes meet and her expression quirks just so...

"I never thought I'd see the day that Richard Carlisle so candidly admit he was _afraid_ of something. Afraid for his future," Mary shakes off whatever it was that had gone between she and Carlisle and smiles to herself. "It's a shame then that I hear your days here at Britannia could also be numbered. To think, you might be left out in the cold – no job, no empire..."

Matthew watches as Carlisle hesitates – stuck between giving Mary the satisfaction of buying into her comment and being left to wonder if she might have outplayed him somehow, knowing something that he doesn't.

But after a long moment, he goes with the former. "I'm not sure what nonsense you're allowing yourself to be fooled by Miss Crawley, but I can assure you that I have no intention of walking away from my commitment to this company."

"You see, that's not the impression I got." She extends the folder in his direction, light with only a handful of sheets of paper inside.

"What's this?" Carlisle is vaguely affronted.

"Look inside." Mary seems to only just be able to tamp down on the smile that comes with her pointed instruction.

After a moment's hesitation, Carlisle does as he's told.

It is endlessly satisfying when, eyes fixed to the page, his expression falters for that first time.

"You hacked my phone, Richard."

He looks up with venom in his eyes, "Now that's a dangerous accusation."

"It's not an accusation. What you're looking at is _proof_."

Two highlighted sheets of paper. The entry from her voicemail records and then the logs from Downing Street.

"You thought you were so clever. You thought that your little bait and switch with the Downing Street phones would work and you thought that seeing as it was only ever _you_, seeing as you kept your journos out of it and Britannia was never picked up by any investigation that you'd gotten away with it. It's a shame really, but you can understand why it might look bad for the majority shareholder in one of the world's biggest news organisations to be associated so directly with phone hacking," Mary observes with some amount of pleasure, "It shut down the News of the World after all – I wonder what would become of your Britannia?"

Carlisle's jaw works, but he seems incapable of responding to this suggestion.

"So here's the deal, Carlisle," she proceeds assuredly, stepping toward him in a manner that can only be interpreted as predatory, "The stories stop, the favours _stop _and you resign from Downing Street to put an end every last bit of the nonsense. You don't bother me, you don't bother Matthew and you don't bother any other part of my family because if you do, I call one of my friends at Scotland Yard to show them what I just showed you. I imagine after that it wouldn't be very long before your entire empire is torn to the ground."

"I don't think _you_ are in a position to threaten me," he chokes out.

"Oh I think I am. I think that for the first time, you have more to lose than I do."

And then for the first time since the exchange began, Mary turns to Matthew. He catches a glimpse of... something – complete exhaustion maybe – before it disappears.

It's over.

"You should think about it Richard," she says to him as she turns, "I think you'll find my terms quite acceptable."

Matthew follows as she turns and doesn't look back.

.

It's one of the first things she feels she has to do. Keeping to herself on the drive home, occupying only a small space in the back seat of their taxi, Mary finds that through the roar of thoughts racing in her head, the one thing she knows she ought to do is to call her father.

It's not as much for _him_ as it is for _her_.

The problem she finds is that it doesn't feel like she'd expected. After all this time and after all the heartache that has been endured since the day Richard Carlisle took it upon himself to become involved in her life, she didn't think she would get to this point and be left feeling so... unfulfilled.

It's not something she can easily explain, it's not even something that's hit her suddenly since they left Carlisle's offices, instead it has been building uncomfortably since the media barrage began – a creeping sort of anxiety over an issue that has had the power to define so much of who she is.

Who she has been.

And so, as Matthew abides by her need for space – not asking, not pressing – she takes out of her phone and dials.

"Hello?" he sounds groggy with his answer.

She remembers the time, midnight having long since passed.

Regardless, she presses on.

"Papa, it's Mary."

"Mary? Is everything okay?" As he comes back to awareness, his words are tinged with concern.

"I'm fine," she tells him shortly. "I went to see Carlisle, Papa."

"Carlisle?" he asks, his the pitch of his voice climbing, "Why? What's happening Mary?"

"He won't bother you anymore. He won't bother any of us."

"But how?"

There is little victory to drive her explanation, "I have proof he hacked my phone. I've told him I'll turn him in if he tries to take the story about Downton any further."

"Oh." Her father says nothing for a long moment. "...And that's it? That's the end of it?"

"That's the end of it. He should be resigning as Chief of Staff in the morning which I trust means that he'll be out of our lives on a more permanent basis."

"You don't sound... pleased," he points out guardedly.

Wearily, Mary explains, "I'm tired, Papa. It's been a long day and an even longer week but I just thought you ought to know."

An awkward sort of pause, then, "Yes. I appreciate that."

"I'll email you some of the documents when I get home if you want."

"That would be good. ...As soon as you can."

They say their goodbyes and Mary looks up to find Matthew still waiting patiently on the other side of the car. It's not long before they arrive back at her flat and still without a word said, he goes with her inside.

"Are you sure everything is okay?" he asks after she takes to carefully clearing and stacking the papers that litter almost every surface in the open living area of her home almost as soon as the door is closed behind them.

"I'm fine."

"...Because it's almost one o'clock in the morning and you're cleaning."

"I just don't want this," she motions to the papers, her voice entirely toneless, "all over the place when I get up in the morning."

"Right..." Matthew doesn't seem convinced.

But she can't stop. She can't let up even now as the night creeps into morning, because she fears if she does that the force of what she's holding off will sweep her away.

She's stuck in storm of unsettled feelings – confusion and disappointment right along with fear and loss.

It's over.

It's _over_.

Still, she keeps clearing, tidying, moving.

"Mary, _stop_." The words ring out with authority.

She doesn't look up from her task.

"Mary..."

She keeps going.

Going, going, going.

"Mary!" This time he steps in front of her boldly and he takes both of her arms in his hands to slow and steady her in front of him.

She doesn't meet his eyes.

"Darling..."

His hands trail up her arms to come to rest on her shoulders, his eyes she can feel bearing into the top of her head that she tips in his direction, her own eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

"You can stop."

Not lifting her head, she replies in a small voice, "I can't stop."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm afraid what will happen after I stop."

"Hey, _hey_," he carefully brings one hand across to her cheek, bringing her gaze up to meet his own, "After you stop, I'm here. After you stop, we can talk about things or we can _not_ talk about things – whatever you need."

For a long time, she simply thinks on this.

And then she steps back.

She can see the moment his hopeful face falls. She wonders if in another situation, the marked change would have been able to break her heart.

"What is it?" he presses more urgently, "What's doing this to you?"

How she wishes she could explain...

The words don't come.

And so she tries something else.

She closes the space between them and presses her body along the length of his. The closeness comes as an intoxicating comfort and he seems to take a fortifying breath as she takes up the air around him.

He understands, he tries when she doesn't or can't, he wants to make this better.

Longing to feel _something_, longing to be better for him, Mary draws in towards him and presses her lips desperately to his. His reaction is automatic – eager and willing he pushes back and they quickly become twisted together.

It's so much easier than thinking.

Her hands start to drift, up his chest, toying with the buttons on his shirt.

Breathing heavily he asks gently, "Is this really what you want?"

"Yes," she draws closer still.

"We could _talk_..." Matthew tries a little tentatively.

"I'd rather _feel_."

And so it is. It's an easy, heady sort of dance that seems like the only thing to break through the thick fog that has settled over her.

While she works at his buttons, the loose fitting material of her own white shirt that she'd thrown on to meet Carlisle is also pulled over her head. Jeans and trousers are quickly shed and Mary is swept up in real, piercing sensation – a love and a burn and the buzz of intimacy that almost makes her feel drunk as Matthew gives in and runs his mouth along her exposed collar bone.

_This_ is what she needs.

It's needy and desperate and she lets it all but consume her in order to forget about anything else – any little thing that has been hanging over her in the days and hours before.

She falls to the bed, her fingers fisting around sheets and she doesn't want air and she doesn't want space, she just wants this to take her over. Hands roam freely; Matthew's making quick work of a bra, sliding confidently over exposed flesh, and her own drawing him closer, guiding...

He'd stood shoulder to shoulder with her when she'd gone in guns blazing to confront Richard Carlisle, he'd never given up as they'd journeyed down the rabbit hole investigating her father's misdeeds and he'd stood up to her, he'd pushed and prodded until she's bared her soul, he'd taken her for what she is and never wavered when things had grown complicated.

This is what she needs.

_He_ is what she needs.

Pressed together, she can feel two uneven, racing heartbeats where slick skin meets slick skin. They twist in perfect alignment and pleasure builds somewhere within her – growing and retreating as they tempt and tease, give and take.

And then comes the moment – blinding, overpowering and honest – the last delicious twist before they collapse side by side. Their timing isn't perfect because after all, it's real life and not some fairytale that they're living, but despite this the moment is heavy with its sweetness.

Eyes creeping closed and exhaustion thick around them, they both begin to drift towards sleep. Her thoughts absently float towards the morning and to all that might be waiting for her in a new day; she wonders if she might finally have the closure of Carlisle's resignation, that she'll finally feel good for all they've done on this very eventful night.

The story she wakes up to, however, is _not_ the one she's expecting.

.

_**Robert Crawley arrested**_

_In a brief statement sent to the press this morning, prominent Tory peer and Party Chairman Robert Crawley has confirmed that he has turned himself into police over a matter that relates to his conduct at the helm of the Downton Group before his resignation as its Chairman in 2009. _

_His statement coincides with the arrest overnight of a handful of other Downton executives from this period, along with that of prominent international businessman, Kemal Pamuk. Reliable sources suggest that information and documents provided by Lord Crawley facilitated these high profile arrests._

_Also tied to this very surprising turn of events are rumours beginning to circulate that Britannia News Group kingpin Richard Carlisle is to be investigated for phone hacking. These claims come as Carlisle was pitted against Crawley's daughter Mary in the media over the daily operations of the Prime Minister, Charles Carson's Downing Street office where both Carlisle and Miss Crawley hold senior positions. _

_Follow our live blog on this story, below, as further details emerge._

_As a high profile figure within the Conservative Party, Crawley is expected to..._

_._

Mary phones him as soon as she sees it, her still-simmering reserve from the night before escalating into a vague sort of panic that starts to claw in her throat as synapses fire and the magnitude of what's happened actually registers in her brain.

It takes that extra second – a moment of bliss where it's all an impossible joke – before the momentum of it all but takes the feet out from under her.

Her father has been arrested.

He has turned himself into police.

When he picks up after only a couple of rings, her heart leaps as part of her wonders if it all might still be a horrible mistake, if it all might still be _okay_.

"Mary?" her father's voice sounds strange.

"Papa! Oh god, I saw the stories on the news this morning – I was sure none of it could be right. I'm so glad you picked up; thank _god_ you're not at some police station."

She doesn't quite recognise her own voice and her own words.

Slowly and carefully, Robert replies, "It _is_ right, Mary. I'm with the police now, though I've been hoping to speak with you; they agreed that I could take your call."

"_What_?"

A pause. "I've... turned myself in."

She can't help the short gasp that passes by her lips.

"I don't understand," her voice wavers, "What's going on? _Why?_"

He sounds rushed, "I can't explain very well right now. I'll tell you more when I see you."

"But when will that be? When... when are they going to let you go?" These are questions that usually sound so assured from the lips of Mary Crawley.

"Soon, I hope." And after a moment, "But you should know Mary, I'm doing this for you."

"Why is this for _me_?" she laments quietly but with unfamiliar emotion colouring every word. "Papa, this was over. You didn't have to do this."

"I did." There are voices in the background, "Mary, I have to go. I'll see you later. "

Her phone beeps at her to indicate that the call has ended. She only just resists the urge to throw it at a wall.

And then she catches Matthew's eyes across the room looking at her gravely. She's sure he can see her begin to fray around the edges.

"He's in custody then?" he asks cautiously.

"Yes."

"Did he... say anything about Carlisle?"

She shakes her head carefully. "No."

It's clear that he doesn't know what to say.

After a difficult moment, he asks, "What do we do now?"

She thinks about this quite seriously.

"I think I have to go to the Big House. It's the first place I think he'll go after they release him – I need to be there."

"There will be even more cameras," he hedges.

"I don't care. I suppose I've gotten used to it."

"...Do you want me to come?"

"But what about Bates?" Mary asks more practically.

"He'll understand." Looking over her carefully, Matthew goes on, "I won't come if you don't want me there, I just thought that after everything..."

"I know," she says more quietly. "I'd like you to come."

And once again, he follows her down the rabbit hole.

.

The time they spend that day waiting for her father to be formally released on bail is not an easy one.

As once again the cameras flash – this time not just the ones sent by Richard Carlisle, but from every major news outlet in town – Cora is the one to answer the door and she ushers them inside quickly, ineffectually trying to shield them from the media glare just beyond the gatepost.

When inside, they spend a lot of time in the front living room, saying nothing and looking at each other. Edith hovers awkwardly, looking equal parts dazed confused, but even she knows better than to ask too many questions about what has begun to unfold.

One of the harder things Mary has to do as they wait is to take a call from Carson. She of course had to expect that he would see the numerous news stories and there's a mixture of hope and anger to the way he asks about the revelations of Carlisle's conduct that are now dancing through the press.

As best she can, Mary tells him what she knows of the unfolding drama. Evenly, she sketches out what she and Matthew found from her phone records and begs Carson's caution when it seems he might make a sweeping announcement about Carlisle's future in his employ. She confirms with careful, tired words that her father is in police custody, finds herself automatically apologising for her father's failure to discuss any of it with the Prime Minister and party leader beforehand and listens as Carson waves off these apologies without hesitation. With an assurance that Mrs Hughes and Anna will be enough to keep him right for a day or two, he urges her to take some time to sort through her family's drama, and with that he is gone.

It's sometime through the morning, a short while after Carson's call has ended, Cora brings through everyone's second cup of tea and Mary finds herself watching over her mother, thinking...

She finds she has to ask. "Did you know?"

"I'm sorry?" Cora looks at her blankly.

"Did you know he was thinking of turning himself in?"

There is brief hesitation, and Mary sees signs of a sort of internal struggle flicker across her mother's expression. "...No."

"But perhaps you had an idea...?" she fishes, "When I came to see you on Monday it seemed like there might have been... something there."

Cora presses her lips together. "I knew he had been meeting with... someone. And he had seemed so pensive about these things – he was worried for you Mary."

"So this was pre-meditated?"

"I don't know." And then more gently, she explains, "Something has changed for him Mary. He's trying to do the right thing."

"Everything was going to be fine Mama; Carlisle was ready to back off. He didn't need to do this!"

Cora struggles with what to say and there's a heavy moment of impasse.

Again, they all descend into silence.

Silence that remains until Mary's private mobile rings for a second time.

"Papa?" she answers.

"They've let me out. There's a police car escorting me home."

"When will we see you?"

"It shouldn't be more than twenty minutes. I'll see you soon."

.

She'd kept to herself, mostly, when her father had first arrived and as he'd try to explain to the wider family just what had gone on.

He had been involved with fraud at Downton many years before.

He had admitted this much to police.

He is to receive a more lenient punishment in exchange for information that will allow authorities to successfully prosecute others implicated in the scandal, namely Kemal Pamuk, long wanted by the authorities for his connections to drugs and money laundering.

There are questions of course, a great deal fired in his direction by a tentative Cora, a sharp and haughty Edith and a cagey Matthew. Mary hardly listens, instead finding herself lost to her thoughts – a fact, it seems, her father doesn't miss.

As the questions wind down and once the rest of the family seems as satisfied as they're ever going to be with his explanation, Robert turns to Mary, "I hoped I might get to talk to you privately?"

It takes her a moment, roused from her silence, for the request to register.

"Why?" Her response is blunt.

"I feel we ought to discuss this. Just you and I; at least to start with."

Across the room, she feels the weight of various sets of eyes – her mother, Matthew – who look to her as though this is a good idea.

Somewhat reluctantly, she follows him from the room.

"I thought you might want an explanation," he begins once they've situated themselves in the kitchen away from the others watching on.

"I thought that was what you were trying on before with Mama, Matthew and Edith," she shoots back insolently.

"There's more to it than that."

Sounding unimpressed she asks, "Then what?"

He comes around the bench-top in the kitchen to perch on a stool at her side. His attempt to soften himself and to blatantly foster some sense of closeness between them is obvious.

Mary bristles.

"I've been thinking about this for a long time, Mary," her father explains carefully.

"Yes. I got that impression."

"Did you?" The question is genuine.

Only a little less sharply, she elaborates, "Mama said something when I came to see her at the start of the week. I think she knew that you were..." but without a better way to term it, she finds herself finishing, "evaluating your options."

"Oh," Robert seems almost pleased at this idea. Pleased perhaps, that her mother might have taken time to think on his behaviour.

Mary doesn't share his optimism.

Still light, her father continues, "I suppose she's right though – I have been evaluating. Ever since that day you showed up in my office."

"With Matthew?" she asks automatically.

"Before you came alone."

It's not often she thinks of her father as anything but predictable. It seems as though today, he is determined to turn that all on its head.

How easily she remembers the morning that she showed up in his office demanding some solution for Richard Carlisle. It had been the days after Matthew and that first time, and it had been naive of her only but a few weeks ago to think it was all going to be stopped at her desire for a fresh start and on her word.

But how things have changed.

She's not sure how she feels to know that her father's decision has been simmering for such a period of time.

"That was when I first had to properly think about it anyway," he supplies before a silence has the chance drawn on, "There were... other times that made it rather clear that I wouldn't be able to continue as I had been."

"Other times?"

He lists them candidly, "When you came with Matthew and he did well to put me in my place. When Matthew came on his _own _and once again, did a rather effective job of putting me in my place. But then... last night..."

His eyes seem to fix on something far away, something not even in the room with them.

"Last night?" Mary asks in a small voice, a knot of what she can only name as wariness tying itself tight at the back of her throat again.

She can't seem to get away from it.

"It wasn't until you told me that we were at the end of it that I truly understood how far from the end it really was. How far _I _was." His words are rich with conviction when he goes on to profess, "You had to trade your justice for my salvation; I have done terrible things but it would have been even more terrible of me to recognise that as a fitting end to our troubles."

"No." Her head shakes firmly.

No, this is not how it goes.

But her father doesn't seem to listen.

"You know that I have friends within the police," the explanation winds on, "I had started to speak to them a few weeks ago – I'd been at least thinking about it since that first time you came by but there were... more formal discussions after the morning with you and Matthew."

She looks at him blankly, allowing no expression to cross her features.

"It started out quite generally," he blusters in the face of non-reaction, "I wanted to know how it would work and what it would involve – what I might be facing. I spoke with those people I knew to be friends, so they were... understanding, _accommodating_, I suppose."

"Is this supposed to endear me to your efforts somehow?" Mary bites off.

"I'm just trying to make you understand," her father beseeches, "There were... things in motion with the police before yesterday but I only made my final decision late last night. I realised that none of it could ever be right until I faced my mistakes. I've done wrong by you Mary, I've pulled you into this and I want to set things _right_."

After a moment and after spending some time reaching for the words, she replies, "It was fine. _I_ was fine. This was all going to go away."

He seems to misread her concern and qualifies, "You have no reason to worry about the investigation Mary; the police have agreed that you will be considered an innocent party in all of this. That much was among my terms."

Her head shakes tiredly, "It's not that."

"Then what?" he implores, "You can't have been _happy_ for it to be left as it was last night – for Carlisle to stay free and unaccountable for his actions, for the likes of Pamuk to continue as they always have."

They share a heavy look. "I would have lived with it, just as I've lived with them for all these years."

"But Mary..." This is not what he expected to hear.

And so comes the crux of it.

It comes spilling from her mouth, unfamiliar fear and unusual fury and just plain exhaustion the fuel to her final assault, "I'm sorry; did you want me to be _grateful_ for your rather rash decision? Did you want me to be grateful that you've made everything I've fought for and everything I've put up with for the last four years come to _nothing_?"

Her father gapes.

He falls over the words, "I don't- How- How can you say that? Why can't you _appreciate_ what I've done? How..."

Mary musters a cold, quiet smile. "Is that what this is about? Appreciation?"

Somewhere between realising what it is that he's said and fumbling over his shock her father says nothing more.

"We never could get a break, could we Papa? Never on the same page, never could make each other happy." At this she rises from her chair, allows his hand on her arm to fall away ineffectually and goes for the door.

As she goes to leave, she issues what could almost be a warning, "Well I think I'll be making you unhappy again before long."

But she won't let herself think too much of that now.

As she collects Matthew from where she left him in the front sitting room, all she can think of is how much she needs to get out of this house.

.

_**Crawley steps down as Chairman**_

_In a move that has been largely expected after his arrest yesterday, Robert Crawley today has formally resigned his position as the Chairman of the Conservative Party, heralding the end of his once-promising political career._

_At his side when he made his first formal statement to the media since turning himself into police was wife, Cora Levinson Crawley. This marks the first time the pair have been seen together in public since Lady Crawley's move to New York in order to helm family empire the Levinson Brothers. _

_Lady Crawley supported her husband through his announcement and her presence has been taken by many as a sign that the Crawley marriage might be on better terms after...  
._

Matthew watches her carefully over the days that follow.

Mary tries, and to a point succeeds, in giving the impression that life continues as normal – she gets on with work, keeps her head down in the wake of the cloud that still hangs over the likes of Carlisle and her father and at least _says_ all the right things – but there is something to the way she carries herself, a careful distance and a hesitancy that was never there before that makes him think that something might not be... quite right.

It comes and it goes but is something that he's aware of all the same. He sees it in the way she clams up every time she catches her father's face on a television screen, feels it in the way she's more guarded with her affections and even hears it in one side of a phone call with her grandmother later on a Friday night.

("I'm sorry that Papa didn't tell you about it before he turned himself in Granny, but you should know that he didn't tell _anyone_." Feet pace at the other side of his flat.

"Yes, I know you're his mother. I'm his daughter and he didn't bother to mention it to me."

"Of course it's terrible what he's done... No, I don't think he was thinking about your political legacy before he went public." Words go from being icily distracted to being a tinge amused.

"...Where did you hear _that_?"

"Well that's all it is for the moment – a _suggestion_. You know the Americans; they always have to ask...")

He's tried not to press or to ask too many questions – as much as the temptation may itch at him, as much as he may want to know what's on her mind and what some of her guarded, more cryptic comments could possibly mean, he's done his best to accept that rather a lot has happened over these last few days and that she might need some room to work through it all. As hard as it has been, it has seemed like the... reasonable thing to do.

And so he sits by, not asking and not pressing.

He sits by until late one night when Anna phones him all in a panic.

"Whoah Anna, calm down." He hears breaths, thick and shaky, coming from the other end of the line. "Is there something with Bates?"

"No, it's Mary. She was here and then she took off."

The heavy breaths keep coming before Anna says the words that send cold concern twisting in his gut, "I think there's something wrong with Mary."

.

_**Carlisle resigns as phone hacking charges loom**_

_In what is fast becoming a week for high-profile political resignations, Richard Carlisle has today stepped down from his post as Downing Street Chief of Staff upon confirmation that he is to be investigated for several incidences of phone hacking, dating back to 2008._

_The Prime Minister is yet to make an official statement on the matter but it is widely assumed that he is to be replaced by the current Deputy Chief of Staff and one of Charles Carson's closes confidants, Mary Crawley._

_Crawley is among those named as targets of Carlisle's illegal practises and is now thought to have been the focus of a smear campaign designed to discredit her after she first came to suspect Carlisle of misconduct. The results of any inquiries she might have made into this matter and the initial basis of the authorities' case against Carlisle only became public when her father, Robert Crawley, another high profile target of Richard Carlisle, turned himself into police this week over fraud at the Downton Group during his time as Chairman of the Board._

_Though there is only limited information available from police as they continue their investigations, it is understood that Carlisle has already been questioned by police and that charges are expected to be laid in the coming days..._

_._

"I thought you would be pleased," Anna remarks as they watch Carlisle's statement again in her flat, replayed endlessly on the news that night.

On the screen – on almost every screen in every home in the country tonight as the media at large relish in Richard Carlisle's scandal – his face is sallow, eyes dark and words contrite. It's almost hard to believe.

"I _am_ pleased."

Mary tops up her wine glass. Generously.

It's been a long time since the two of them have done this – sharing a bottle of wine or three while reviewing the day's events.

A lot has happened in the weeks and months since they last sat together with a day of scandal under their belts, but despite the boyfriends and fiancées that now monopolise so many of their evenings something about this chance to escape and to reflect had appealed to Mary when it had first been suggested that afternoon.

Now that Anna's leaning on an exposed nerve, however, she's a little less enthusiastic.

"I thought you would be _more_ pleased then," Anna qualifies.

"Just because I'm not jumping for joy doesn't mean I'm not glad to see Richard Carlisle taken down a few pegs."

"Well you should be," Anna ribs, "We've been stuck with him hovering and threatening for two very long years – there's nothing wrong with celebrating a little now he's finally been done away with."

"Is that what this is?" she asks dryly.

Anna scoffs, "No one in politics will touch him! He'll never be able to go near Britannia again for fear of one of his papers being shut down the minute he steps through the door! Richard Carlisle is _done_."

"I see that_ you're_ quite pleased with this turn of events," Mary observes idly.

"Of course I am. This is an _end_, Mary – a happy one."

The suggestion seems to stir... _something_ within her – a decidedly uncomfortable feeling she's been trying to avoid.

More cagily, dancing along a tricky line, she asks, "Oh? How do you get that?"

"How can it not be?" Anna is incredulous.

All of a sudden, things seem to be going in a dangerous direction.

Awkwardly, "It's just... not always that easy."

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

But Mary's not sure Anna could ever understand.

She's not even sure _she_ can fully comprehend the size of it all.

The feeling that she's carried for several days – that uncomfortable foggy anxiety, a strange and total loss that had her all but screaming at her father in his kitchen days before – rise up in the wake of Anna's remarks and she struggles for the right way to respond.

Her throat tight, the words don't come easily.

As the silence stretches on, Anna's eyes grow wider and she implores vehemently, "Carlisle is gone, your father is finally facing up to his mistakes and you'll be Chief of Staff at Downing Street before long – isn't that what you _wanted_?"

In a small voice, carefully on the cusp of inaudible, Mary replies, "I don't know."

Anna has trouble with this thought, "You... don't know?"

"I don't know anymore Anna! I feel like I don't know who I am, never mind what I _want_ from all this mess." Her voice climbs almost to a shout as she feels herself begin to unravel all over again.

It's weak, it's inelegant, but it's more than she can contain any longer.

"That's okay," Anna tries warily, proceeding with a great deal of caution, "I know a lot has happened, I know it's a hard time for your family given your father's arrest and all that comes with it. You can talk to me about it."

She says nothing.

"Please Mary, talk to me about it," Anna implores.

"I just..." her eyes dart uneasily, "...I can't."

"Why not?"

She opens her mouth but the explanation is not forthcoming.

Instead, she tries, "You won't understand."

"I will, I'll _try_."

But it's not enough – not in this state and not without a clear head to sort through the mess of feelings before her.

However much Mary wants it to be, it's not enough.

"I have to go."

She doesn't pay much attention as she leaves the flat but had she been more wary, Mary might have seen Anna picking up the phone to make a desperate call to Matthew.

.

She doesn't have the luxury this time around of sitting in a car outside Carson's home, the security of Downing Street taking away her chance to pause.

It feels strangely familiar though, showing up to see Carson on these terms, her father and his conduct weighing heavily on her mind.

She's been here before.

This time, she makes it inside.

She waits for him in his private study, the face at his door recognising her right away and scurrying off to find the Prime Minister, whom she is assured is still awake. Where she sits, she picks at the edges of a comfortable chair, a nervous sort of hum building inside making her eager for the distraction.

"Is everything okay?" Carson appears at the door, the picture of concern.

She gets to her feet, replying tiredly, quietly, "I don't know."

Carson steps towards her, patting her on the arm. His rare affection does provide some comfort.

"I know you've been... struggling, milady," his hand makes one more pass across her arm. "It's your father?"

"Partly." She nods.

Carson comes around to sit in the armchair next to the one she'd occupied and simply waits.

"I made it such a big part of who I was," she offers after a time. It's the best explanation she can give him. "Protecting him, dancing around Carlisle... that was my identity for _years._"

"I can see that," he concedes kindly, "I understand why it's troubling to see all that change so readily."

"Yes," she agrees with notes of vehemence, "Yes. I know I shouldn't let it all affect me like this..."

As she takes a pause, Carson leans in and sympathetically assures her, "You don't always have to be _strong_ Mary. You're allowed to let things get under your skin sometimes – as much as you might find that a little... difficult."

After giving her some time, he remarks, "I've seen how this is weighing on you. I don't by any means blame you or take it to be inappropriate, but I see it in your work – for this last week you've not been the same person ever-ready to run this office. I _worry_ about you."

Mary offers him her first small smile. He's one of the few that can get through to her in these moments and his careful patience reassures her in this moment.

Tentatively, she explains, "There's an opportunity for me to get away..."

"Ah... the campaign?"

"You've heard?"

"Of course I've heard." He then asks gently, "Are you going to go?"

"...How can I?" Mary replies almost sadly. "How can I leave you now? How can I go when you've no Chief of Staff and when you've got to deal with all this political upheaval? The Party Chairman has resigned, one of your senior staffers has been pulled up for phone hacking!"

"Oh, I think I'll survive it," Carson tells her lightly, "I would prefer to have you _happy_ and at full speed further down the track than only doing half a job now."

"I suppose..."

"There will always be a job for you in this office. No matter how long you need to take."

"Thank you Carson," she replies, her words rich and genuine.

He nods and takes her appreciation with little ceremony.

After their moment of understanding passes, Carson astutely observes, "But that's not the real reason you don't think you should go."

Expectant eyes are heavy on her as she considers this suggestion.

"No. It's not."

"You know, Matthew might understand if you explain..."

"Will he?" she asks forlornly, "It wouldn't be unreasonable for him to be upset that I want to up and leave for months on end. He's put up with a lot recently; it's hardly fair that I turn my back on him after all that."

"You won't be turning your back on him – I don't think that's true. I think he'll come to understand that much if you explain and if he's someone who's at all worthy of your affections."

"Of course he's worthy, Carson."

"Well this may be his chance to prove it," he tells her seriously. "I've come to believe that you need this time, Mary. I will admit that I was somewhat distressed when I first heard that this was a possibility but I've watched you, I've considered it and I think it's for the best."

"I think I _want_ to go," Mary admits.

"It's a wonderful opportunity," Carson points out, "I would be proud to see you go, to see you have such an opportunity..."

Her response to this is fond, "You were always my staunchest champion, Carson."

And so he nods in that way that a Prime Minister nods when he is convinced of something, "You should go. You should talk to Matthew Crawley and then you should go."

"I'll try."

"That's all I ask."

Something in her chest loosens and Mary finds herself more resolved with Carson's blessing and advice.

A little more practically, she asks, "What will you do about staffing?"

"Well I won't be replacing you outright as Chief of Staff, if that's what you're thinking."

"Carson, you don't have to-"

He cuts her off, "I've already told you – I will always have a job for you and you are always going to be the first choice to lead my office. With that said, I need someone to merely step in for the time you're away; there's no point in promoting someone who has no past experience in the Chief of Staff role – I'll be stuck with them working out what on earth they're supposed to be doing for weeks on end and then I'll just have to stand them down once you return. It makes more sense to take one someone who already knows what it involves..."

"It sounds like you have someone in mind," Mary points out knowingly.

"You know Mary, perhaps I do..."

.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing Mary says as he steps into her flat that night.

"I was worried," Matthew is serious, "Anna phoned me. She said you ran out on her."

"I did. It was silly of me, but I wasn't exactly in the best frame of mind," she admits. "I really should call her to apologise."

"You should," he tells her plainly without offering any more.

For a long moment, she takes in the sight of him standing before her. His shoulders are tense, his lips pressed together draw a thin line along his face and he watches her carefully.

"Come and sit," she asks.

Matthew hesitates only briefly and then does as she's asked.

She can do this. As always, she can do worse than to take advice given to her by Carson.

"I know I've been... out of sorts recently." As she continues, she's firm, "I'm not going to apologise for that much – it's been a hard few weeks and I feel I ought to be allowed at least a little time."

His features soften, "I wasn't expecting you to apologise. I just hoped that you would _talk_ to me about it; you're very good at keeping secrets Mary, there always seems to be _something_."

"But that's it," she tells him assuredly but still carefully, "I haven't been keeping secrets – not this time. I've needed some time to think and to consider some... options, but I don't think it's fair to suggest that I've been deliberately trying to keep secrets. I wasn't in a place to talk about it and now I am."

"Okay..." It's not so much an acceptance from Matthew as it is tacit agreement to take this notion under advisement. "What is it that you wanted to... talk about?"

She's not really sure where to start.

She finds herself trying to explain, "I'm considering an offer to go away for a while, to go to America... They want me work on the Presidential campaign."

Matthew seems to freeze. "What?"

"They've offered me a fairly senior role," she elaborates with the bare hint of excitement riding under her words. "It came about when we first started looking into Carlisle; I was worried what might happen if we were unable to put a stop to him and I at least started to consider what my... options might have been had I ended up out of a job. I have friends there because of Mama – there were a few people that I spoke to and when they got the impression I was looking around, they offered me a position."

He sort of... sags. His voice is small when he asks, "...But why?"

"Why did they ask, or why do I want to go?"

"The second one," he sighs a little sadly, "Obviously the second one."

Mary finds herself sharing in his quiet melancholy as the atmosphere around them quickly becomes tense in a way different to before.

"I need to get away from this Matthew; I need to put some distance between me and all of my family's problems."

"But _America_? And for several months, I assume?" Matthew is clearly at a loss, taking the suggestion very personally, "That's a lot of distance."

"It's not from you. It's not _about_ you."

"Then _why_?" he asks one final time, almost desperate to understand.

She leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees so that she's almost folded in on herself as she begins, "For such a long time I made protecting my father and struggling for power with Carlisle such a big part of who I was. It sounds so silly now but I didn't realise until it all seemed to be solved and that all seemed to be slipping away that I felt... lost without it."

"That's..." Matthew's words drift off. "You're so much _more_ than that."

"I hope I am," she tries tentatively. "I'm not sure how logical it all may be, but the way things were with Papa, the fact that _I_ was the one to wrangle with Carlisle and who suffered directly for his involvement gave me a sense of _control_ over it all. With all that's been happening, it suddenly felt like I was losing control."

"But your father turned himself in, Carlisle will probably go to jail, even your friend Kemal Pamuk has been done away with – there's nothing left that you need to be in control _of_."

"And still I'm lost, still I'm carrying around this feeling like I'm half a person," she tells him quietly. "This is why I need to go Matthew. I need to learn who I am without this hanging over me and I don't think I'll be able to do that stuck in the same place while all of it is still being dissected by the media and everyone I come in to contact with at every turn. I need to put myself in a position where I'm not in control all of the time and learn how to deal with that more healthily."

Matthew's hands twist together and his eyes cast downward. This is by no means an easy conversation to have and she can see so plainly how he struggles with the idea.

"Would... Would you stay if I asked you to?" he asks carefully.

After a moment's thought Mary replies, "I would. But I also think you'll come to understand how much I need to do this and that you won't ask that of me."

"Mary..." But the words trail to nothing.

"You can think on it," she offers softly, after a beat assuring him, "But I hope you know that I wouldn't be leaving _you_. There is a lot that I want to get away from but the hardest part about it all is the thought of months away is this. Is _you._"

Matthew wavers, eventually managing, "It's... a lot to take in."

"I know."

"How long would you be away?" he asks thinly.

"Probably three months. The election's obviously at the start of November and from there it depends on how things go."

"That's... not as bad as it could be."

"But I will be coming back, you can be sure of that. I have something to come back _to_."

Mary sends a small smile in his direction.

His lips twitch and she wonders if some of what she's saying might be getting through.

Taking her opportunity, she moves from where she sits to a spot much closer to Matthew on the couch. There is an awkward moment, crowded into a corner without quite enough space before he moves back to accommodate her, legs touching and shoulders occasionally brushing together.

Matthew turns, a hand wavering and then settling on her leg with hesitant affection before he offers, "I don't want to hold you back if it's something you really want to do..."

"I do want to go. The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that it's the right thing."

"If you want to go then I'm going to have to learn to live with it, aren't I?"

"I think that's up to you."

One of Matthew's hands dances up to her cheek, brushing lightly across and turning her face toward his own. Their foreheads press together and for a long time they just sit.

"When will you leave?"

"It depends on how quickly I can sort things out in Carson's office. If I can finish everything off and fix it so he's happy with whomever standing in then I'll go on Wednesday."

"Wednesday? That's barely three days."

"They want me as soon as possible," she attempts to explain, "The campaign is already well underway."

"Right," the hand still close against her face makes another pass across her skin, "Then I suppose I'll have to make the most of the time I've got."

It doesn't take much to close the space between them. He kisses her lightly though reverently as they slide ever closer making the most of an honest moment.

"So this is okay?" Mary asks after a beat.

"...I'll _try_," he offers tentatively. Reaching carefully for the words, Matthew qualifies, "I'll try as long as you try too. So long as you use the time to sort through things instead of just throwing yourself into work; provided you _talk_ to me when it's warranted instead of keeping all of these secrets all the time."

"I will – of course I will. That's why I want to go."

"Then... okay. We'll make this work."

He gathers her to her feet and for a while, they are content just to be close.

They'll make this work.

They always do.

.

Matthew is the one to go with her to the airport when the time comes.

She'd said her goodbyes to Carson the day before in the office. He'd been there for the handover and Matthew had seen so easily how the thought troubled the Prime Minister but still how he'd stayed strong with the knowledge it was the best thing for Mary.

She'd farewelled her family at home and it had been an odd moment to have Mary heading across the Atlantic without either of her mother or Edith in tow. While Edith is set to follow, returning to her home and her husband in only a handful of days, there had been something there that Matthew had caught a glimpse of when it had come to Cora – a hesitancy and an unspoken resolve hanging in the air, it doesn't seem that there are plans for her to return stateside any time soon. The sum total of it seems to be that Robert has owned up to his mistakes and that Cora intends to stay and support him; Mary says little but Matthew wonders if she might actually be pleased.

Anna had come to the flat while she'd packed. Matthew hadn't been there when she'd arrived but he'd come back to Mary's later that night to find them three bottles of wine into it, giggling, talking too fast and over each other, pretending they weren't somewhere on the edge of tears as they'd folded Mary's life into a lone case and carry on.

Patrick had texted his wishes of luck while Mary had smiled when she'd shown him the message.

All of which just leaves Matthew. He swallows back on the knot of anxiety in the back of his throat as the imposing form of Heathrow airport rises before them and he follows her inside, the only person to come with her this far.

Check in is a needlessly long process that Mary faces alone; Matthew sits in among a row of chairs to one side, responding to a new barrage of work emails on his phone to pass the time. For a moment he allows himself to feel overwhelmed – the job, the airport around him, the thought of farewelling Mary for three months... it all seems a little much.

He steels himself – he's better than this, bigger than this and it's what's right for Mary. There has been a great deal of discussion over the past several days about how it all will work and he's mostly assured that her going will make things easier and not harder in the long run, that she's going for the right reasons and with the right intentions at heart.

It's just three little months.

Three little months that will make all the difference.

Once she's checked in, they hover in the terminal a little awkwardly. There are so many things that could be said as the time of her departure nears but for a long time, it all hangs awkwardly between them. Mary seems keen enough to make a beeline for BA's most excessively opulent lounge but with Matthew unable to go past Passport Control they linger together for a long while, wandering through gift shops and bookstores, too fast to smile and too quick to laugh.

And then it all seems to catch up with her.

They're sitting on a bench, a little closer than might be proper and both sipping at cups of coffee that he'd bought for lack of anything else to do. He hadn't had to ask for her order, presenting her with the drink – bitingly strong and frighteningly hot – without a word and allowing her to tuck herself into his side.

After a few pensive sips, she announces, "I hope I'm allowed to be _your_ Mary Crawley for all eternity, and not Papa's version or Carlisle's version or anyone else's for that matter."

He turns, a little dumbstruck, his hand going out to rest on her knee without much thought.

"You'll always be my Mary, because mine is the true Mary." He can't really help the way he says it, eyes twinkling and fingers brushing lightly over skin as the earnest statement seems to get the better of him. After a thick pause, he asks, "What's brought all this on?"

"I was just thinking about... what it will be like over there," she hesitantly explains, "What they all might think of me when I show up on their doorstep and make myself a part of their little world. I don't _want_ to be Mary the ice queen, Mary Crawley who doesn't have a heart – I want to be _your_ Mary."

"It's not like you to worry about what others think."

"Things change," she muses lightly, impishly before her words grow heavy, "_People_ change. I like to think I've become better for knowing you, for... loving you."

He takes her hand in his own, "You were always a good person Mary."

"It's possible – but I never made any attempt to share that much with others."

One hand becomes two. Though where they sit is in the middle of a busy airport, the scene around them almost seems to dissolve and it's just _them_, huddled together as they are, the world around them barely able to touch them.

"You shouldn't make yourself something you're not just because you think it's what you're supposed to do," Matthew implores, "You're... perfectly wonderful as you are."

How could he ever want her to be different from the wonderful Mary Crawley that he's come to know – the woman who stared down a leadership crisis, who showed him the real Westminster, who has simply become _everything_ in such a short stretch of time...

"I'm not... I wouldn't. Just... maybe I should learn not to be so closed off all the time – try to be the Mary _you_ know to more people. You see more of who I am than anyone."

"Well I hope – in part, at least – it stays that way," he laughs at the thought, "There are some things that should always be mine and mine alone."

She shares in his smile, "But of course."

"I'm going to miss you terribly," Matthew tells her warmly, "But I hope you don't miss me one bit. I hope you're too busy thinking and learning and too caught up with all the exciting opportunities you've been given to think about me here at all."

She tips her head, assuring him softly, "Of course I'm going to miss you, Matthew. It's going to be the hardest part of all this."

"I love you Mary Crawley," and with a quiet waver to his voice, as well as a dazzled, besotted sort of look he adds, "_My_ Mary Crawley."

"You don't know how much that means. How it has made these impossible weeks more possible." Mary gets to her feet and turns back to him as he follows suit. She grips at his arms with a great deal less confidence than he's become accustomed to, both standing toe to toe as she adds, "I love you too."

She reaches up, the first one to make a move, arcing her arms around his neck as she pulls him nearer. They stay as they are for a long time, locked together without the need for anything other than their careful closeness as the moment stretches on.

"I should go," she tells him a while later.

"I know."

They don't move.

She breaks the stalemate after a beat with a heady and urgent sort of kiss that seems to take them both by surprise. They twist together easily and tenderly, all hands and mouths and skin in a careful goodbye.

It goes on longer than an embrace in a public place really ought to, though neither of them care.

Mary pulls back. "I'll go." And then, once again, urgently and thick with finality, "I love you."

She steps back, never turning as she walks away.

He slumps onto their bench, dazed for those first few minutes that tick by after she goes. He allows himself only a short moment to wallow before resolvedly pulling himself together – it's not as if he has time to be floundering, as much as he might want to.

He checks his phone. Missed calls are already numbering in the tens.

Right.

He can do this.

Dialling the number to check his messages, he steels himself for what comes next. Three months without Mary, three months of hard work and of breakneck political insanity.

Three months as interim Downing Street Chief of Staff.

He can _do_ this.

.

**The End**

.

* * *

**A/N**: Soooooooo, epilogue anyone? I know this was _heavy_ but I have a shopping list of sunshine and puppies and rainbows provided you think it might be worth a stab. Is there anything anyone wants to see or anything that you thinks needs some resolving?

As always, I just love to hear what you think. Thank you for sticking with me.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** This was never meant to take so long - in the time since you've heard from me last I've won an election (and also sort of lost an election), made a jaunt out Parliament way and seen out a kind of nerve-racking leadership spill; too much real politics and not enough fiction.

I've also been slowed somewhat knowing that this will be the end. Thank you, you wonderful people for sticking with me this far and I hope you enjoy this final piece of the puzzle.

In case you need some catching up: last chapter Mary & Matthew worked out how to prove that Carlisle did some pretty shifty things (i.e. phone hacking) to get the dirty on Robert and his dubious business activities back in the day. They used this info to force Carlisle's hand and to get him to back off but it all sort of went pear-shaped when Robert decided to turn himself in anyway in exchange for a lesser sentence. Mary did _not_ react to this turn of events particularly well and as she started to pull away, she realised that the whole mess had taken its toll and that she needed to get away from it all for a while. With some reluctance, Matthew agrees that she should take up a (temporary) job on the American Presidential campaign and he steps into the role as Carson's Chief of Staff until she returns.

* * *

**Epilogue**

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Tuesday, 2 October 11.12 AM (GMT -7:00)

To: perseus01

Subject: Suspended account

It's been more than a month and I _still_ can't believe they suspended my Downing Street email account and credentials.

You're the Chief of Staff, you should get on that.

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Tuesday, 2 October 6.20 PM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Re: Suspended account

_Acting_ Chief of Staff. And I'm very busy and important so I do not have time for trifling things like your suspended email account.

Why do need it anyway? You're on the other side of an ocean.

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Tuesday, 2 October 11.26 AM (GMT -7:00)

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: Suspended account

It's the principle of it – emailing from that address has inherent prestige, Matthew.

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Tuesday, 2 October 6.29 PM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Re: Suspended account

Don't you have some fancy account from working on the campaign? I would have thought the American President was prestige enough.

And still you ignore that, and I'm sure other personal accounts, to email me from an address I set up in jest. _That_ I find rather interesting.

I'd say you miss me.

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Tuesday, 2 October 11.34 AM (GMT -7:00)

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: Suspended account

I'm just trying to keep the personal and the professional separate.

Also, shut up.

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Tuesday, 2 October 6.36 PM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Re: Suspended account

The lady doth protest too much. You most certainly miss me.

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Tuesday, 2 October 11.37 AM (GMT -7:00)

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: Suspended account

I think the gentleman wants me to stop replying to his emails.

.

From: perseus01

Sent: Tuesday, 2 October 6.40 PM

To: andromeda12

Subject: Re: Suspended account

Never! Unlike some, I am not ashamed to admit that I miss you terribly.

That said, am now going to leave you hanging. Have to have dinner with my mother – long story – and am already late. Will call you when I get home?

.

From: andromeda12

Sent: Tuesday, 2 October 11.42 AM (GMT -7:00)

To: perseus01

Subject: Re: Suspended account

I will not confirm that I am in any way looking forward to your call.

Love you, you sap.

.

Isobel Crawley had shown up on his doorstep quite unannounced only the night before, an overnight bag clutched primly in hand.

"I've been worried about you," she'd announced as she'd marched herself through the door as Matthew had stood back, gaping.

"Worried?"

"You've sounded a little down on the phone. I thought I'd come and... gee you up a bit."

And that had been that really. No date of departure set, nothing else said – just his mother coming to stay for some unclear reason and some indefinite period of time.

He gets to the restaurant that night with the best of intentions at heart; he's just going to set her straight (_again_) about his frame of mind and stress that he by no means expects her to _go out of her way_ no matter how _incredibly generous_ it is that she's offered to stay for the next few weeks.

But then she asks: "So, what is it about this Mary Crawley girl?"

The tone of the conversation takes a turn.

"What do you mean?"

Isobel's response is light and innocuous, "Well you've been so flat these last few weeks and I understand that you're fond of her. I thought the two might be related."

"I'm not _flat_."

"Oh Matthew, you forget that I am your mother and that I know you far better than you give me credit for." She waves a hand.

Still, he remains firm, not allowing himself to falter or to admit to anything that might start him on a slippery slope of self-pity, instead trying to remind her, "I'm _not_ flat – I'm just busy, a little tired perhaps. I have been acting the Prime Minister's Chief of Staff this last month, I think it's to be expected."

"And your Mary, she's ordinarily the Chief of Staff?"

Matthew has to smile, "She's not _my_ Mary – she's not _anyone's_ Mary, at least not like that."

"Well you're... involved, are you not?"

It's not that he hasn't told her and more that it has never been easy to explain.

"Yes," he eventually tells her.

"Is it serious?"

"Yes," he replies again.

"Oh..." this seems to interest her and she asks with some sort of agenda bubbling under her words, "How much longer will she be away?"

"A month, at least – the election's still that far away."

"And she's... happy enough to be away for so long? To seemingly leave you behind, quite on your own, for months on end?"

"It's not like that," he explains away quietly, "It certainly wasn't an easy decision and we talked about it a great deal. Mary has had her own issues to deal with-"

His mother interjects, "Because her father was arrested?"

"That's part of it yes," Matthew replies a little tiredly, "Going was the best thing for Mary – we talked and we agreed. She certainly didn't just up and leave me here."

There's a pause as Isobel thinks about this suggestion. Then she does as she always does when she doesn't agree with something Matthew has said – she brushes it off with simpering lightness, "...Well if that's how you really see things, I suppose I shall have to accept you point of view."

"It is."

But then comes, "It's just..."

The words trail off.

When she lets her pause draw on just a little too long, he's forced to ask, "What is it mother?"

"...You're... comfortable to be associating with people like that?" Isobel's lips press together, "These Crawleys seem to be an... awfully entitled bunch. The fraud charges alone seem to suggest that they're a type of people used to getting whatever it is they want, no matter the means – that's what a life of privilege will do for you. They're not _like us_, Matthew."

For a long time, this might have given him a reason to worry; such a comment would have stopped him in his tracks and made him stumble with his own uncertainty – as it once had late one night at restaurant when the now-recently-incarcerated Kemal Pamuk had come to town.

It strikes him that he hasn't thought about that night in a very long time.

"You know, I struggled with that idea for a long time," he begins, and his mother seems to be pleased enough to find him almost agreeing with what she's said. Then, assuredly, watching as her expression falters, he goes on, "It's complete rubbish."

"But _why_?"

And so, Matthew explains, "It's true that Robert Crawley deserves whatever he gets – he probably does have the makings of a serious attitude problem but it's not fair to say that that much is systemic or that it's somehow bread into his kind. I don't think that just because their family is well off and well connected to say that they _all_ have a problem with the way they go about their business. Violet Crawley may be stuck in her ways but she'll defend those ways and everything that she believes to be truly _right_ to her death. Cora Crawley may be hard-nosed about business but she also has one of the kindest hearts of anyone I've met and Mary... Mary is just exceptional. In everything she does. She may seem cold and may be closed off from the world at times but she's truly determined, truly _brilliant_ and capable of greatness in all that she pursues – thinking and feeling and... _loving_. These people are not bad people and they're not different people; they're just people. Just people that I'm so glad to know in the way that I do."

There is a long, reaching moment of silence and his mother seems to begin some kind of response more than once, each time letting it slide to nothing.

Eventually, she gives him an amused but kind sort of smile. "My, that's _quite_ the testimonial."

"I suppose it is."

"I've never... heard you speak much in that way before," she remarks carefully.

"Perhaps I've never had reason to."

"But you have reason now?"

"I do. A... a very... good reason," Matthew finishes quietly.

He's not quite sure what it is, but his mother must have found _something_ that she was looking for in his response as she drops the subject for the rest of their dinner and she leaves once again the very next day.

"You're doing just fine," she tells him as she goes, patting him on the arm fondly, "I'm so _proud_ of you my dear, working where you are and achieving all you have. Your life has become... all that I hoped for you."

And then she's gone.

Matthew wonders if he ought to take Mary up to visit her once she gets back. It could be quite nice.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 5 October 7.14 AM

To: 'Mary Crawley'

Subject: Wedding date!

Missing you around here today, lady.

John and I settled on a wedding date last night – what with everything at work and the political calendar as it stands, we found something that works right at the end of November and we're just going to go for it.

It's really happening!

.

From: 'Mary Crawley'

Sent: Thursday, 4 October 11.17 PM (GMT -8:00)

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Wedding date!

So glad I caught your email before bed. Congratulations!

I absolutely miss you too. Especially now – I'm so sorry I'll not be around to be more helpful with planning.

But I can assure you that come hell or high water, there's no way I'll miss the actual wedding part. Give me your date and I'll make it work.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 5 October 7.21 AM

To: 'Mary Crawley'

Subject: Re: Wedding date!

November 25.

And of course you're going to have to make it work – I can't bloody well get married without my maid of honour.

.

From: 'Mary Crawley'

Sent: Thursday, 4 October 11.32 PM (GMT -8:00)

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Wedding date!

Oh Anna! Maid of Honour – are you sure? For lack of a better term, I would of course be completely honoured; I just worry that I won't be a very good one to you when I'm all the way over here.

Are you some place that I can call you?

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 5 October 7.35 AM

To: 'Mary Crawley'

Subject: Re: Wedding date!

Just about to duck into a meeting with some of the media staff but you don't need to call anyway, it's _fine_. I know what I'm getting into – John and I are keeping things small and doing most of it ourselves anyway.

You just have to send us your measurements and then show up on the day.

.

From: 'Mary Crawley'

Sent: Thursday, 4 October 11.37 PM (GMT -8:00)

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Wedding date!

I'll do a lot more than that.

I'm already starting my list of ideas for both the hen night _and_ the speeches.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 5 October 7.38 AM

To: 'Mary Crawley'

Subject: Re: Wedding date!

Should I be worried?

.

From: 'Mary Crawley'

Sent: Thursday, 4 October 11.40 PM (GMT -8:00)

To: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Subject: Re: Wedding date!

Of course you should be worried.

.

From: Smith, Anna (C. Carson, MP)

Sent: Friday, 5 October 7.44 AM

To: 'Mary Crawley'

Subject: Re: Wedding date!

Your lack of detail is what concerns me most.

Unfortunately, I have to head off for this meeting now so I'm pretty sure I now get to be tortured by that thought for the rest of the day.

I went back and forth on whether to send you this but I know you'll want to read it. It popped up on _Yes, Westminster _this morning – wasn't sure if you would have seen this post. I thought it was quite... sweet.

Anyway, I have to go but don't stay up too late – I know what you're like on campaigns and you could do with the rest, lady.

Skype me later? xx

.

_**Profile of a dark horse**_

by M. Gregson, posted to _Yes, Westminster_

_Matthew Crawley was by no means the obvious choice to step up as Chief of Staff at Downing Street when the true heir apparent, Mary Crawley (no relation? The mind boggles), committed herself to a stretch overseas. For starters, until recent months at least, he's been a relatively unknown face in British politics. He also isn't a member of the Conservative Party and to this day, appears to have no inclination to join the ranks of the party from which our nation's leader hails._

_But despite this, Matthew Crawley is still a _good_ choice._

_As the Chief of Staff to BFP leader John Bates (a job it's understood he'll return to upon the repatriation of the fairer sexed Crawley), _Matthew _Crawley will have had a great deal to do with Carson's office and its inner workings when negotiating an extended coalition agreement at the start of this year. Many commentators have also remarked upon the key role he played in this process and how effectively he assisted Bates to a position of power at a time when his party was only establishing its role on the British political scene. There is no doubt that these are among the reasons that Crawley would have caught the eye of Charles Carson when he was shopping for a new face to head up his office._

_Having been in the role just over a month, the comments I've heard about Matthew Crawley's stint thus far as Chief of Staff have largely been positive ones. He's hard working – which I imagine was a given, considering his earlier role as the Number Two to one of Britain's more effective Ministers – he's also amiable and approachable, with the sort of political mind that can't entirely be taught or learnt._

_Since stepping up to this most daunting of jobs, Crawley has had to navigate the minefield that is the first major defence bill to front the parliament since the spending debacle of August, and he appears to have done so with minimal fuss. He's also had to co-ordinate a tricky announcement over schools funding and an even trickier state visit with everyone's favourite Russian President._

_While Chief of Staff, there has been a stoicism about him that many have remarked upon but whatever it is that's got him stern-faced, Crawley has nothing to be concerned about when it comes to his own performance. From a government that has spent the best part of two years being gaffe-prone, in his tenure in this top job there have been surprisingly few gaffes._

_All of this begs the question: does Crawley have a more _permanent_ future as Carson's most senior political appointee? _

_This suggestion has already been put by assorted media outlets to the Prime Minister who spoke highly of Mr Crawley but also recommitted to installing his long-time protégé, Mary, upon her return._

_And what of Matthew himself? Well, this blogger got the chance to put this very question to him in person and his response was entirely diplomatic:_

"As much as I am enjoying my time working for the Prime Minister and truly appreciate this very exciting opportunity, I am fully prepared to return to my position with John Bates and moreover, I very eagerly look forward to Mary's return."

_He's declined to make any further comment on the matter and has, as the picture of a discrete political staffer, kept himself well away from the media fray._

_As much as we here at _Yes, Westminster_ would enjoy the drama that would come with yet another messy fight for the CoS spot, it seems that it is not to be. And when it comes to Matthew's unusual charity towards the famously hard-nosed Miss Crawley? Well, we all have our theories..._

.

He's getting more and more used to it – the part where the Prime Minister appears at his door.

Matthew can be proud now to be able to say that he's at least gotten to the stage where his heart doesn't jump well and truly into his mouth each time he looks up to see the very stately form looming, but there is still just the bare hint of nervousness to contend with that seems to come hand in hand with the revelation that this man is actually the _Prime Minister_, standing before him, seeking his input.

He's almost sure that the day he actually gets used to it and all of the prestige stops dazzling him will be the day that Mary comes home. But so long as that day comes quickly, he finds that he doesn't mind.

And so, when Carson appears that Friday afternoon, he finds himself quite typically uneasy, getting to his feet as the Prime Minister strides through the door.

"Prime Minister," comes the rather obvious greeting. Matthew takes a breath and fixes a smile to his face.

"Matthew, did you have a minute?"

"Of course, of course," he waves a hand.

Carson hovers before him, watching him carefully enough that Matthew begins to feel a little... unnerved.

"It has come to my attention," he begins stiffly, measuring each word, "that you have been somewhat... discontented of late and that this fact is now being picked up on by certain individuals outside this office-"

Matthew interrupts, "No... No, I'm not unhappy, I assure you." The words come with an edge of urgency as he tries to explain away the Prime Minister's disquiet, "I'm not sure what it is that's being said but please believe that it's not anything I've invited."

Carson's features soften, "I'm not concerned, Matthew – I would perhaps go so far as to say that it's... understandable given the circumstances. It's just that hearing this chatter brought me to realise that this has been a rather trying number of weeks for you and that you've done remarkably well given the circumstances."

"Oh," he manages in surprise, "Thank you."

"I imagine that you... Well, I imagine that like me, you are finding Mary's absence somewhat difficult."

"I am," Matthew replies evenly, keeping the words neutral.

"...I thought it might be time that you took a well-deserved break from it all," he begins carefully. A little wary, Matthew says nothing, leaving Carson to continue, "While I'm not at liberty to slip away very easily, you are not in the same position. You are also fully entitled to spend your weekends as you choose – as much as I note, and appreciate, that you've dedicated much of them to your work of late."

But the thing is, he doesn't _want_ to take a break or to pause for weekends. He doesn't want to stop long enough to realise that he's actually rather lonely.

"I appreciate it Carson, but I honestly prefer to be working. It keeps me busy."

"If you let me finish," he prods gently, "I was going to suggest that you use the next couple of days to _get away_."

A piece of paper is slid onto the desk in front of him.

"What's this?" Matthew pulls the page closer.

"Plane tickets," Carson announces unceremoniously. "I'm sorry that I can only spare you for a weekend but I thought a couple of days would be better than nothing."

He looks more closely at the document before him and realises what it all means.

"...America?"

"Consider it my... more personal thanks for a job well done," he smiles fondly, "Though, you leave tonight, so you ought to think about getting yourself organised."

"Right. Of course," Matthew blusters over the words, at a loss for what else to say. As Carson goes to turn, he calls him back to offer genuinely, "Thank you. Truly."

"You're very welcome Mr Crawley. I am not ashamed to admit that the idea of bringing happiness to two people I'm rather fond of was selfishly quite a pleasing prospect. Enjoy yourself."

And with that, he's gone.

Matthew dives back behind his computer and commits himself to powering through the last of what's open on his screen. He has a plane to catch.

.

The journey is a rather... _long _one.

While his feet are on American soil by ten thirty (local time, at least) his connection through to Mary's most recent stop on the haphazard and ever-moving campaign trail – somewhere out Midwest – is delayed and he's left to get acquainted with some plastic airport chairs. When he does eventually find himself back up in the air, the plane is small, the flight is bumpy and he doesn't sleep, all leaving him a little worn by the time they finally land.

He hasn't told her that he's coming – it's maybe a little silly, but the fanciful idea that he might surprise her somehow has taken hold. There's no one to meet him at the airport but as the night (or more aptly, the _morning_) draws on in his third time zone of the day, Matthew doesn't seem to mind. The minute that he climbs into the back of that taxi, none of it matters any more.

Because he's actually _here_.

Because he's just a cab ride away.

The bright lights of an unfamiliar city flash by as the car speeds along empty roads and the awkward groggy feeling that had hung over him before landing seems to fall away.

Mary's kept him updated with her itinerary while she's been overseas and when he sees the familiar name of her hotel rising out of the sky the anticipation that's been buzzing within him reaches a low hum. Having failed to think of the little details like stopping to withdraw local currency, he brandishes his credit card in the direction of the driver (and hopes that his bank won't cut him off, he really should have notified them he was going out of the country) and waits impatiently for it to go through.

The minute it does, he makes a beeline for the lobby and then for the elevators.

Quite quickly, however – pressing at buttons and staring with dazed frustration when nothing happens – he learns that one does not easily get up to the floor that houses an entire presidential campaign without a key card for the lift.

Just _great_.

Back out he goes.

"I ah... I was hoping you might be able to call through to one of the guests," Matthew awkwardly asks an attendant on the front desk, "I know it's late, but I think they'll want to see me."

He tries not to feel too self-conscious at the thought of how it all must look, showing up at a hotel quite literally in the middle of the night.

"Who are you?"

"My name's Matthew Crawley" Nothing. No reaction. A little more cannily, Matthew tries, "I'm the Chief of Staff to the British Prime Minister."

He tosses one of the still-crisp business cards across the counter and smiles to himself.

He _knew_ that would come in handy eventually.

"...Who do you need to speak to?"

"Mary Crawley. She's with the presidential campaign. Room 1012."

Matthew lets the attendant take this all however he chooses. Any one of the various conclusions he can reach with the given information suits his purposes just fine.

The boy behind the desk then huffs, tapping away at the keys of his keyboard and eventually picking up his phone without another word said.

The wait for some kind of response at the other end of the line is almost painful.

"I'm sorry to disturb you Ms Crawley but there is a man down here in the lobby who's asking to see you."

A pause. Something is said on the phone that Matthew can't make out.

The concierge looks back up in his direction, "What's your name again?"

"Matthew. Matthew Crawley," he bites back.

"...His name's Matthew Crawley."

There's a look of only mild surprise on the attendant's face as he lifts the phone from his ear. "She hung up."

Nothing more is said as the man steps out from behind his desk in order to speak with a colleague.

It's this same colleague that approaches Matthew, still waiting by the counter, a few minutes later. "I'm afraid you'll need to leave sir."

"Leave?"

"I am asking you to please leave the lobby," he reaffirms with more force.

"Just wait a minute-" but his words don't get any further. One of the lifts dings its arrival and out of it flies a familiar form.

"Matthew!"

They've never been a pair for over the top affection but there's something about this moment that seems to catch them both up with its uncanny excitement. Mary almost bounds instead of runs and she launches herself at him without artifice or concern once he's finally within her reach.

His arms go out automatically and they crash together, one into the other, leaving Matthew feeling a little more whole than when he began.

"You're _here_," is all she seems to manage.

"I'm here," he agrees quietly, drawing her closer, "I'm so glad I'm _here_."

They stand like this for a long while, twined together, unable to separate themselves and unable to take that step back. Not so soon.

As time draws on, Mary tucks herself under his arm and her breathing evens into something much more subdued. Murmuring into his shoulder, she asks, "What are you doing here?"

He actually laughs, "Carson found me too miserable for his liking and booked my ticket. I think he wanted rid of me."

"Miserable?" The question is a little more serious. She leans back and studies him for a brief moment.

"I'm _fine_. I've just been working hard... perhaps missing you just a little. It's a lot for anybody to deal with."

"How long can you stay?"

"I'm booked home on a red eye Sunday night; back to work Monday."

She sounds disappointed, "Two days?"

"That's all they could spare," he explains. "I know you must have a hundred things planned for the days I'm here and I don't expect you to drop anything – I'll just... admire from afar. Here. With you."

"Nonsense. We'll make something work," she offers him a warm smile with her words as her eyes drift from his own and seem to roam, taking in his face, his arms, his whole body...

He wonders if like him, she can't quite believe he's standing quite where he is.

After another long pause, she steps out a little further but extends her hand back in his direction, "Come on."

He takes the offered hand and follows her more than willingly back to the lift.

They both inch closer as the doors take their time to close.

.

It's safe to say that Matthew's first day on the campaign trail is a disaster, all with the help of six little words: _we're going to need more coffee_.

He'd sort of wanted to see it – the madness, the energy, the _significance_ – and he certainly hadn't wanted to turn Mary's entire weekend upside down, so he'd encouraged her to go ahead with what would be a normal day on the campaign. She really had tried to accommodate him and to show him some of the things he might have wanted to see, but it had only been a matter of time until she was pulled away for some unnamed-yet-urgent task never to be seen again.

He hangs awkwardly for a while in the shop-front campaign office they've ended up at, trying not to look like he's in the way, pretending that he knows what he's doing. He's fairly certain he fails on all counts.

As time draws on, Matthew sits by the desk that Mary has briefly claimed as her own amidst the fray and after internal debate, turns to a laptop that she'd left behind – at the very least he figures he can use the time to keep up to date with his own, no doubt numerous, emails from home. He doesn't pay much attention to the bustle around him in the open-plan space, with volunteers and seasoned campaign workers all making noisy phone calls and shouting instructions back and forth. He's only brought back to awareness when he realises some is shouting loudly and repeatedly in his direction.

"Hey you!" When he doesn't look up it continues, "You!"

"I'm sorry?" he eventually asks, lifting his head to see a tired looking worker – one of those ones with a disproportionate sense of personal importance – covering the mouth piece of a phone in hand so as to allow her to shout over to him.

"Can you get that?" she nods to phone on his desk. It's ringing.

Before he has the chance to say anything (namely to point out that he actually has nothing to do with the campaign and has no idea what he's doing) the woman goes back to her call and turns her whole body away from him without giving him the chance to protest.

And so, he picks up the phone.

After that, everyone seems to think he's some kind of assistant. It starts with one phone call, passing along one message, and ends with a day of manning a desk, directing enquires and doing regular coffee runs for a group of people who drink enough coffee to make insomniacs out of a small nation. He doesn't see Mary again.

("Hey Matt!"

"It's _Matthew_."

"Matthew then. We're going to need more coffee."

"Okay...?"

"Can you go?"

"I don't- I'm just using the desk, I'm not actually-"

"There's money in the jar by the door and a list of orders pinned to the wall. Get something for yourself if you want."

"But I-"

"Sorry Matt, I got a hundred things to do. I'm _so _glad you're helping us out.")

It doesn't let up for most of the day but when those in the office begin to trickle in and out to eat around dinner time, he finally sees his chance to escape and he leaves without looking back.

With nowhere else to go and unable to get hold of Mary on her mobile, he sends her a text about making some of their own dinner plans and heads for the only place he can think worth going.

Mercifully, she appears about twenty minutes later.

"I'm _so_ sorry." He hears her voice, and her genuine plea, from across the open space. "I'm really, really sorry – I kept trying to leave and then I kept getting pulled into something else; it makes me worry how these people got by before I got here." She then brandishes the bad full of take away in his direction, "I brought dinner as a peace offering."

"It's fine," he offers.

She sets the bag aside and comes closer, her words wary and apologetic, "Is it?"

Matthew smiles gently. He is warm and resolved when he responds, "It is; I knew what I was getting myself into when I came, I probably shouldn't have imposed myself upon you when you were working today – it only gave you another thing to worry about."

"That's not true," Mary tells him earnestly, "I wanted you there today; I want you here now." As she finishes, she takes one of his hands in her own.

Fingers lace together. "Then that's all that matters."

And it is. All that matters is that they're here, in the same place after all the weeks that have passed. All that matters is them on this hotel rooftop, edging closer together (in a way that's more than just the literal) just like each of the times they've found themselves in this spot before.

"We have a thing for hotels and their roofs," Matthew points out on a breath, taking another look around where they stand.

"I know. I find I quite like it." She curls herself closer against the windy air. It's almost like a habit by now. "And here I never thought I'd see the day a reasonable person could get nostalgic about rooftops but once again Matthew Crawley, you have proven me wrong."

"Oh, _again_?" he prods with a wry smile.

"Don't be smug. It doesn't suit you."

"I think it suits me just fine. Just as this new humility seems to suit _you_."

He'd meant it as a joke but when Mary's response comes a moment later it is more staid, edged with emotion, "I'm _trying_. It's only been a few weeks but I think I'm doing a little better on that front."

"...That's not what I meant," he qualifies gently.

"I know. But it's worth saying." She seems to practise the words, rolling them around on her tongue, "I'm _trying_."

Making an effort to be light and with deliberate wit, Matthew observes, "I've never known Mary Crawley not to succeed at something she's really put her mind to."

"Then I suppose by the time you get me back for good next month I'll be a changed woman."

"Not _too_ changed," comes his earnest caution, "I've said it before, but there's a difference between change and growth."

Softly, offering him a cryptic smile, Mary replies, "I know. I remember."

He can't help it after this – there's something about the utter rawness of her words that sees him gather her up and fold her away in a tangle of arms, chest and body.

They stand like this for a long time.

The night goes on around them.

After a while – after their heavy silence has settled – Matthew goes for something lighter, colouring the words with amusement, "Everyone in there today seemed to think I was some kind of dogsbody." He has to laugh looking back on it all, "You might have been kept busy today, but then, so was I."

"Oh god! Did they have you on the coffee run?"

Matthew can only nod with good humour while Mary groans in response, "No matter where you are on the campaign and what city you're in, they always seem to treat the new faces in exactly the same way."

"I also spent a lot of time answering the phone. There seemed to be a fair number of people looking to talk to some woman called Tammy."

"She thinks she runs the office there. She's a bit of a cow to be perfectly honest."

"I got that impression," he gives a short laugh.

"Did you want to eat?" she redirects his attention back to the food he's almost forgotten about, "It's my way of saying sorry for every Americano you were sent to buy this afternoon."

"What have you got us?"

"Thai. A campaign tradition."

He turns and reaches towards the bag with grandeur, "Then I am yours to initiate."

Just as it was that first night on the roof, they both pull up chairs that are at least a little less ragged than previous occasions and they chatter idly as they eat. Mary runs down her day, talking with increasing animation about her work and about people that used to be mere colleagues that she's come to see as friends.

Her eyes are alive and she uses her hands as she talks, gesticulating with each point she has to make. She enjoys this work, that much he can see, and Matthew can only be happy to see her so fulfilled by this choice to come here and to try something new in the way she talks about travelling, about policy and about new media.

He could watch her like this all night.

And for a long time he does – he just _watches_.

There's a subtle change in the tone of their conversation when a while later Mary mentions, "Anna emailed me yesterday – she and Bates have set a wedding date."

"Really?" he leans closer, "When?"

"It's soon – the end of November."

"That _is_ soon."

"They know what they want," Mary shrugs, "You can't blame them for going for it now it's all fallen into place."

"Absolutely not. I imagine I'd do the same."

"You would?" The question seems carefully innocuous, "I'm not saying I necessarily agree, but there are a lot of people who might suggest they're rushing into all of this."

Matthew thinks about this for a moment and his response is measured, "I've seen firsthand how much Bates cares for Anna – they deserve very much to be happy and to be happy on their own terms."

She cocks her head, "I'd suppose that's fair." And then after a pause, "Do you think this is what they need to make them happy?"

This is a new introspective side to Mary that Matthew isn't entirely sure he's used to seeing.

He doesn't comment, instead replying, "Happiness is what you make it. Knowing Bates and Anna as I do, I'd say this is a good thing."

There is something just a little... more to the way the whole exchange unfolds – a weight to their words that Matthew can't quite place but still can't avoid. It all makes him uncomfortable in a way that isn't entirely _bad_ and he finds himself somewhat at a loss for what else he can say.

Still, Mary seems to be waiting for more.

After a beat, he offers, "I don't think it will _define_ them or make them any more or less than they are now. But it will be... nice."

"Nice," she agrees with a careful nod.

The conversation drifts again after this, both careful to stay just this side of light after a more weighty turn – he fills her in on bits and pieces from Westminster that she might have missed since she's been gone, he passes comment about their food, they speak of how nice their view is from their spot up so high, how he thinks he'll take some time to see more of the city tomorrow.

What they _don't_ talk about is the fact that it's already his last night, that come six the following evening, he'll be back on a plane and on his merry way back to England. They don't talk about the likely six weeks they'll still be apart once he heads home, Mary's still-undecided return date or any of the questions that still loom over the heads about an uncertain future.

They just enjoy their food, the view and their company. The rest, Matthew resolves, can wait.

.

Mary's wake up call comes early the next morning.

"Yes?" she groans into the phone, sounding only half awake. She holds it to her ear only for a few moments more, muttering in acquiescence before hanging up.

"I'm supposed to get up."

"I gathered," comes Matthew's sleep-worn reply.

"We have a meet and greet thing first up this morning."

"You mentioned." He's still only half-awake.

"I'm not going," she announces.

This gives him a jolt. "What?"

"I'm not going," Mary sounds more resolved, "I'm going to sleep a little longer with you, then I'm going to come with you to see some of the city. I'll have to go to that rally later but at least we'll have the morning."

"What about the campaign? I don't want to-"

"Oh, stuff the campaign." She almost laughs. "I haven't had a moment to myself in weeks and my significant other has travelled several thousand miles to at least get the chance to see me – I deserve a break."

He props himself up in the bed to ask, "Did you really just use the term 'significant other' like it's an actual thing?"

"It's a perfectly acceptable term," she replies, lightly defensive as she pulls a sheet loose and climbs from the bed partly wrapped in it.

"You know what I mean."

Mary ducks her head back from the bathroom where she's started to brush her teeth. Quickly rinsing her mouth she comes back to hover across the other side of the room. "Well we've never really had _that_ discussion."

"What discussion?"

"About what we... call each other. To other people," she finishes somewhat awkwardly. More evenly, she explains, "We were too busy keeping it a secret before that we never really worked out these sorts of details."

"I suppose there's no need for it to be a secret now," Matthew observes carefully.

"Not really. I thought when I got back maybe..." His heart picks up with a tentative sort of anticipation as Mary's words trail off. He waits for her patiently and after a few beats she finishes, "I thought we could be more _official_ about things."

Then she waits.

"I think that would be nice," Matthew tells her when the right words come.

She offers little more than brief agreement, nodding, "Okay."

She steps onto their balcony not long later to call one of her colleagues and to tell them of her plans, though as she goes he calls after her, "We're going to have to come up with something better to call each other!"

Mary smiles as she pulls the door closed behind her.

.

At the rally, he watches from afar.

Their day has been wonderful; they'd seen the sights, neither of them actually that bothered with what they were seeing and more concerned with the experience of seeing them – together, a little giddy and just _free_.

Here they are, free.

"Since we've known each other," she'd told him carefully and quietly, curled into his shoulder partway through the morning, "there's always been _something_."

"Something?"

"Carlisle, my father, even Patrick sometimes... Now there's nothing."

"You make it sound like that could be a bad thing."

"It's not." She'd turned a bright and airy smile in his direction. "It's really, really not."

Like proper tourists they'd taken photos, the sort that Matthew had only ever associated with _other people_ – grinning faces crowded together in front of an assortment of attractions and landmarks, occasional kisses but always much deserved silliness.

He'd found that by the time it was time to head for the rally, he was excited to see Mary in this new role – in what is still her element even so many thousands of miles away from home. Though the last time he'd taken to playing her shadow while she'd worked had not gone well, this time she seems more determined – she introduces him more formally to each of her colleagues as they pass by and she negotiates a seat for him by her own for when the afternoon's proceedings formally get underway.

When she gets called away for some final prep, she apologises with grave and candid words, assuring him, "I'll try not to be too long – it should only be a quick run through."

"It's fine," Matthew has to smile. The man waiting for her briefing is the President of the United States – he doesn't put it into so many words but in this slightly star struck moment (yes, he _knows _he works for the Prime Minster) there doesn't seem to be any way it could not be _fine_.

"Just don't let anyone harass you into answering phones," comes Mary's witty parting remark and she leaves him with secret smile and a quick pat on the shoulder.

It's fascinating, being here, behind the scenes – it's nothing like the day before in a stuffy office, where all the people that could be considered at all important disappeared almost as soon as they'd arrived – this is an actual hive of activity and everyone who's anyone is still buzzing around. Mary's over in a corner and he can still see her talking quickly and quietly, addressing a knot of people (addressing the _President_) before the event properly begins.

He can believe it and he can't. He can believe that this is a world that Mary has so seamlessly become a part of. He can't quite believe he gets to stand here and be the smallest part of it as well.

She makes for an impressive figure – he's known that from almost the moment he met her in her office at Downing Street but he's so very glad to see it now in her most confident demeanour, her subtly expressive form and in the way that the small crowd around her are so intensely engaged. She might have worried once that she was losing a part of herself but watching her here, Matthew thinks she must be well on her way to getting it back.

It's a lovely sort of sight to see.

He stands like this a while longer, just watching, and is distracted only when a voice interrupts, "So _you're_ the reason Mary ditched us this morning."

"Sorry?" he turns his head, still trying to bring himself back from a place he was lost to in thought.

He turns to find Josh – Mary having only introduced them a short while before – watching him with some amusement. Josh, Matthew has quickly learned, is dry but amiable and has seen three American Presidents elected from his days running campaigns. Mary likes him.

"You're the mystery boyfriend. You're the reason she didn't show her face at the meet and greet this morning."

"I wouldn't say _mystery_," Matthew tells him wryly, "And I did tell her she didn't have to miss anything for my sake."

"You're a mystery to us out this way at least," he replies, observing lightly, "You came a long way for a short visit."

"It was all the time I could take away from work." He says little more, leaving it there almost like a challenge.

It's a challenge the American rises to. "Of course – your man Charlie Carson is another one that Mary speaks highly of."

He can't tell if it's been turned back on him with bait hidden somewhere beneath the remark but Matthew makes a point not to rise to it. His response is plain, "It's well deserved – Carson is a good man."

"I've heard." His words take a turn for the serious, "We asked her to stay, you know."

"You did?"

"She's good– I mean _look._" They both cast their eyes over to where she's still talking with the imposing form of a President._ "_She'd only been here two weeks when we knew we wanted to keep her around."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"I can see that." And then with careful curiosity, "You don't think she'll stay?" There seems to be a competitive edge to the suggestion.

"You think she _will_?" Matthew turns his question back on him.

Josh pauses on a wry smile and after a dramatic sort of pause, he admits, "No, not at all. Between Mr Carson and the not-so-mystery boyfriend I don't genuinely think we have a hope. Doesn't mean I'm not going to spend the next six weeks trying to convince her otherwise."

"Good luck with that," Matthew quips.

"Thanks. I'm going to need it."

.

In the end, it all becomes horribly impractical for her to come with him to the airport – he realises he has to go back via the hotel, the rally runs late, she can't avoid the fact she really ought to go to a dinner thing afterwards to butter up some shamelessly anglophile donors who have been hoping to meet her.

They've drawn themselves into a corner, made their excuses while the focus is decidedly elsewhere and ducked behind the scenes of the event once more to talk in lone tones and soft words.

"It's fine – I'll cancel or I'll be late..."

"This is not going to be the second or third time today we have this argument, that would just be silly," but he smiles fondly. "I've got to insist Mary, it makes more sense this way."

She'll stay, he'll go the airport. Alone.

She doesn't accept this right away, opening her mouth as if to protest before closing it again at Matthew's knowing look.

"I see what all of this is about, you know" he tells her gently.

"Oh?"

"You're trying to show me how things are different, how coming here has been a good thing. You don't need to."

"That's not-"

"I can see it, Mary. I already know."

It's all he needs to say.

He can see it in the obvious enjoyment she gets from this work like he hasn't seen in so many weeks and he can see it also in the way she's still trying to make room for him here. He can just _see _it.

"Oh? Is there anything else that you _know_ that I'm not aware of Mr Crawley?" she fishes with a teasing sort of tone.

"I know lots of things," he shoots back lightly, "I know that you're sharing more of yourself now, more of _that_ side, than you used to."

"Anything else?" she encourages with careful words, stepping closer.

There is a lot that goes unspoken through their exchange – possibly more than all that they take the time to say aloud – but it doesn't mean it's not understood on both sides.

"I know your American friends are going to beg and plead you to stay. I know that you're going to come home regardless."

"That's a very bold statement," she smiles.

"Well am I wrong?"

A pause for dramatic effect and then, "...No."

"Then I'll be the one waiting for you at the airport in six weeks time."

Impishly, Mary replies, "Maybe you should make me a sign."

But as long as he tries to draw it out with this little back-and-forth, in the back of his mind Matthew knows the time for him to leave is all but upon them.

He pulls away.

"I have to go."

"I know," she sighs heavily.

"Time will fly."

"I hope."

Matthew pauses for a breath, pauses just to take notice for a moment and then begins with quiet confidence, "I tell you one last thing that I know, if you want."

"Okay..."She says it almost as a challenge.

"I know that you love me Mary Crawley."

She laughs lightly. This is a good thing, a _nice_ thing.

She seems so glad to have this niceness in her life, almost as if it's a surprise to her.

"I suppose I can pay you that."

"How generous," but with his words, Matthew grins and tugs at her arm.

She comes without any resistance. "Do you love me back, Matthew Crawley?"

"You know, I think I do."

This seems to be the right answer because she hugs him close for just a moment, allowing him to press a quick kiss to her temple.

It's simple, but it's also easy. There doesn't seem to be any need for grand gestures.

"I'll see you at the airport," he tells her as he steps back.

"I'll be expecting that sign."

And so he goes.

This time, it doesn't feel so much like goodbye.

.

_**Politics: Why it's ruining **__your __**family life**_

By Edith Ryan, posted to _Mother Knows Best blog_

_People ask me often about politics and I suppose they're right to – my background in politics is well known and my experience gives me a unique and worthwhile standpoint from which to commentate from. I have avoided touching on the issue of the current presidential campaign as I imagine that you will all have had enough of it from the over-hyped, overwrought and perpetually in-your-face media but with just a few days to go in what is touted to be a knife-edge poll, I thought it might be time to offer my informed perspective. _

_It's true that my sister Mary is working as part of the campaign to re-elect the President, but given that in the two months she's been here in the US she hasn't bothered to call more than a handful of times, I don't think there should be any concerns about bias. What dear Mary _has_ bothered to do is to fly our distant cousin cum apparent secret boyfriend (yes, you read that right) all the way across the Atlantic to join her long enough to get photographed together at one of the President's campaign rallies a few weeks ago but that, I suppose, is a whole other story._

_My experience with politics, vast and varied, has shown that it isn't the nicest of businesses. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the majority of the political experience, as exemplified by the recent campaign that is mercifully drawing to a close, has become one of those things, among the ranks of McDonalds (read my post: __here__) or organised competitive sport (__here__), that is undermining the family compact in surprising and alarming ways._

_The first and most important reason for my concern is..._

_._

From: 'Mary Crawley'

Sent: Wednesday, 31 October 4.52 PM (GMT -8:00)

To: 'Edith Ryan'

Subject: Was that really necessary?

Your blogs are in the public domain you know. I can actually read them.

.

From: 'Edith Ryan'

Sent: Thursday, 1 November 9.17 AM (GMT -5:00)

To: 'Mary Crawley'

Subject: Re: Was that really necessary?

Dearest Mary,

You're still in that terrible habit of failing to properly address your emails. Greetings at the beginning of an email and a short message of farewell at the end are still considered to be good manners.

Also: I am well aware how the internet works. You are free to read my blogs if you wish.

Best,

Edith.

.

From: 'Mary Crawley'

Sent: Thursday, 1 November 7.47 AM (GMT -8:00)

To: 'Edith Ryan'

Subject: Re: Was that really necessary?

I'm not in a secret relationship with Matthew. I'm in a _relationship_ with Matthew – there's a difference and you never asked.

I'd also point out that phones work in two directions and that you are perfectly free to call me whenever you like.

.

From: 'Edith Ryan'

Sent: Thursday, 1 November 11.02 AM (GMT -5:00)

To: 'Mary Crawley'

Subject: Re: Was that really necessary?

Mary,

Please expect my call later this evening. It is clear there is a great deal we must discuss.

Edith.

.

Mary takes in the sight before her.

It's an impressive sort of madness – a whole ballroom of people on phones, glued to computers, TVs trained to various channels all offering permutations of the same election night commentary – there are bodies milling around everywhere and the _buzz_ is unmistakable.

Election Night 2012.

They all keep saying it's going to be close. Most of the people in this room have been running on nerves stretched wire-thin for days (for _weeks_ – for the entirely of what has been a long and gruelling campaign) and in this moment, nearly all have reached that election night stage that Mary can only describe as apoplectic.

And yet, Mary finds herself eerily calm.

She just... watches, feeling light and strangely detached from the whole process.

She has to admit, this is not a usual feeling. In all the years Mary Crawley has worked in her field, never has she found election days to be anything short of nail biting.

Still, on this, the highest profile and theoretically highest staked vote night of her career, she feels decidedly composed.

"You alright up there?" Mary hears Josh's voice approach from across the raised stage where she stands.

"Fine." She doesn't turn.

"What are you doing?"

"Just watching," she explains.

"They want you to have another look at the speeches for later."

"_Again_?"

"You know what they're like. They've gotta keep moving, tonight especially – it gives them something to actually think about."

"I'm coming."

Mary takes one last long moment to look out at the scene below before finally turning on her heels.

Back to work. But only a few hours more.

"You're... _calm_," Josh points out when she reaches him after a few moments.

She has to smile, "I think at this stage, it's all relative." Josh raises and eyebrow and she continues, "So long as I'm doing better than the masses out there veritably twitching with anticipation, I'm sure to give you the impression of unwavering serenity."

"No seriously, have you taken a Xanax or something?"

Mary only laughs lightly in response and without acknowledging the suggestion, she tells him, "Come on; let's go argue over whether we really do need the extra 'that' in the seventh paragraph..."

.

There's a lilt of excitement and quiet warmth to Carson's words. They come with pride and an air of grand pronouncement. "They're actually going to win it."

Matthew's head tips toward the voice looming at the front of his office.

Since the count and the subsequent rolling media coverage have each gotten underway, he and Carson have chattered back and forth, keeping up their own commentary alongside what is already a busy day for them in the office and in the Parliament. Matthew has spent the day up and down from his desk, in and out of Carson's office as the Prime Minister tries to fit three days worth of meetings into one, but still they've both found time to channel hop and to stay on top of events across the pond.

Though any kind of election of this magnitude is always big news around Downing Street, there's a mutual vested interest for Matthew and for Carson that has them more eager, more engaged.

Except now Matthew finds himself feeling increasingly... concerned.

"It's beginning to look that way," he replies without intonation, nodding along noncommittally.

Carson seems to misinterpret his wariness and with staid reassurance tells him, "It's hardly as close as they were expecting. There was talk of them counting for weeks but it'll almost certainly be done tonight."

"You're probably right."

"Of course I'm right."

Matthew falters, "It's just..."

"Yes...?"

"Well... I didn't really realise that I was worried they might win until it actually started to look like they're going to win."

Carson's brow knits as he regards Matthew carefully. "Any _why_?"

"You haven't thought about it?" he asks. "They've asked her to stay. It's not that I don't believe her when she says she's coming home or that I don't _trust_..." The words trail off. Matthew sighs and starts again, "If they win, it's going to be so much more tempting to stay. It's not by any means going to happen but it's there in the back of my mind."

"Matthew," comes Carson's affectionate sort of reprimand. Matthew knows well enough to discern what Carson thinks of his suggestion.

"I know," he rubs his temples tiredly.

"Do you?"

"I do." Matthew sounds more resolved as he repeats, "I do."

There's a pause while Carson looks thoughtful, before beginning carefully, "...Do you know why I wanted you to have the Chief of Staff job Matthew?"

"Well... no. Not really," he replies dryly, then observing, "To be perfectly honest there were... more obvious candidates you might have chosen."

"That's true," Carson lightly remarks, "You're new, inexperienced – you're not even a Tory for goodness sake – but you were still the best choice I could have made."

On the back of this pronouncement, Carson moves from where he stands to comes sit by Matthew's desk. He continues, "If I were avoiding any sentimentality I would point out that I wanted you to come and work for me because you are hardworking, you've proven yourself to be somewhat of a shrewd political operator and because you don't have any of the same inherent motivations and agenda that my other choices from within the party may have had."

"Oh," Matthew finds himself bashfully fumbling for a suitable response, "Well thank you, I suppose."

Carson is not moved, "You're welcome." He then goes on, "I am _not_ a trifling sort of man Mr Crawley but I will admit that my reasons for choosing you were in some ways sentimental."

It's a careful admission when Carson finally puts the words together, explaining to Matthew, "I suppose it comes from the evening we spoke of your relationship with Mary and about doing what is right – I got the impression that you were dedicated, _worthy_. It might all seem a little abstract given I'm usually more... methodical about things but it all just gave me this sense... Well, it gave me the sense that this is what I wanted."

There is a heavy sort of moment and Matthew finds himself asking precariously, "What you wanted for your office or wanted for... other things?"

Carson betrays little emotion when he replies tightly, "You know well enough what I'm saying." They share a look for a moment before the Prime Minister adds reluctantly, "Perhaps it's a little of both."

He continues quickly, "My point is Matthew, I hope I wasn't wrong in this assessment. I don't think I was."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that while – I concede – that some doubt is probably to be expected, I hope you don't lose sight of those convictions that made me so sure of you in that first instance. The election's almost won and Mary _will_ come home."

Time passes in silence.

Eventually Matthew nods, announcing with finality, "Okay." He takes the words to heart.

Some doubt is to be expected. Mary is almost home.

"Okay?"

Once again, "Okay."

After a few more beats and a decisive nod of his own, Carson goes to leave. Matthew stops him, dancing around the edges of a careful question, "About the _other_ things you mentioned..."

"Yes?" It seems his interest is piqued but he doesn't offer any more, instead leaving it to Matthew to elaborate.

"I've been thinking about... other things. _The_ other things."

Carson's response is very contained, "I see."

The words come jarred and a little awkward, "When I was visiting Mary, we talked about... the future. Indirectly, anyway."

"Indirectly?" Carson looks over him, "So you were about as specific as you're being now?"

"Something like that," Matthew has to smile – a brief flicker before his features fall back into seriousness with the weight of their conversation leaning on him, "When she comes back we won't have to be anywhere near as cautious as we were before she left. We can move forward."

"That's true."

"And I think we both realised..." The words drift and he starts again, trying his best to sound steady, "Realised that there's something more there to be had."

Carson doesn't give and doesn't waver from his almost amused sort of indifference, "What might you mean by that?"

"You know what I mean."

"No Mr Crawley, I don't."

"...I mean that there's a next logical step. Questions. Decisions about a future."

"And why are you talking to me about it?" Carson asks stiffly.

"Because Mary cares what you think. Because you care about Mary. Talking to you seems like the right thing to do here."

"...Are you... asking permission of some kind?"

The suggestion runs through him with a bolt of anticipation.

"In a sense."

His response comes seriously, "You don't need it Matthew. And I don't think Mary would want you to need it either."

"Your opinion matters a great deal to her."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"And _that's_ not what _I'm_ talking about."

It's a stalemate – who can be more vague, who can dance around the issue more carefully. Both look at each other for a long moment, a thick tension thrumming between them before it dissipates on Carson's smile.

"What... What about my blessing?" he asks with careful words. It's an offer of middle ground.

It's what Matthew needs.

"I'd appreciate that."

"Then you have it," Carson replies fondly, adding, "You know you have it – just so long as you think about what it was we were talking about."

"Thank you," he nods keenly.

"Let's get back to our day, shall we?" Carson shifts in his seat. "Do we know any more of how the count is going?"

Matthew taps at a remote, turning up the volume of a TV on his wall. They catch the tail end of analysis on some state called early, the results from which are hardly a surprise by any stretch of the imagination.

And for the rest of their afternoon they watch and they work as an election is won.

.

_British Prime Minister Charles Carson is one of the first foreign leaders to publically congratulate the President on his re-election..._

The words glide along the ticker banner at the bottom of the screen and an artless, uncontained and almost unexpected smile splits across Mary's face. The message is from Twitter – Mary knows as well as anyone that Carson has next to nothing to do with his own Twitter account but she wonders if this particular update might have more of a personal note.

They've actually done it. They've won.

It all happened a lot more quickly and a lot more easily than anyone ever expected and it's surreal to Mary that it's all over so soon. The mania and hysteria around her has turned to elation and delight but her own unusual calm has remained.

She's _happy_, yes, but there's also this resolved sort of feeling – steely and settled – that has a way of taking the edge off.

Her date of return back home has never been set as she'd agreed to help with the uncertain post-election transition either back into or unceremoniously out of office but with the finality of a win comes a determination to move on. She's ready to go home.

On her phone in front of her is an itinerary – flights home leaving before the end of the week. She books it without a second thought.

She's done – she's gotten what she came for and she's finished with the job she came here to do.

Things feel different this time, and though a part of it may come with the fact that she was _always_ going to be less invested in an election here and with these people, it also feels like she's learned to let go a little. She'll have to work on it – it will probably always be something that she has to work at – but she's better equipped now than when she first arrived.

She knows how to be calm. She took time, stepped back and took time away to focus on the personal when Matthew came and when real life was more important. She has barely thought about what unfolded before she left with her father and all that entails and it's been weeks since she felt that heavy weight of both power and powerlessness, pressing tightly in her chest.

It's a work in progress but she's getting there.

Finally – _finally_ – it's time to go home.

.

Heathrow, Mary finds, is always a crush. The crush of the queues to get through passport control, the crush of rows and rows of baggage carousels, a crush of trolleys and customs and finally – _finally_ – the crush of the arrivals hall whenever she steps into the open space full of tired travellers and hopeful faces.

But as the bustle of the hall around her sinks in she finds herself searching instinctively for her own hopeful face – the person waiting for her in the crowd.

Usually when she travels, returning home is an uneventful affair. Mary is the type of person who always has a seat near the front of the plane, who powers off before anyone else to snatch her bag (if she's even gone so far as to check one) and make sure she's first in the taxi line. If she's travelling with Carson, his car might drop her back at her home or office instead but rarely is there any fanfare.

This time feels a little different.

She steps further into the fray and after a few moments with her eyes darting around, she finally finds him.

"Matthew!" The call comes almost unexpectedly and she catches herself by surprise with her own eagerness after a long flight.

His head turns.

And that's it, really. Barely a heartbeat passes and they're all sort of tangled up – she throws an arm around his neck in a fast embrace, while his own snakes around her waist pulling her closer. As they twist together, the grip she has on her trolley loosens and the ground below her feet seems to give way. It takes her a moment to realise she's quite literally being swept of her feet by way of an enthusiastic welcome.

"Why hello," she finally manages, though not as slyly as she might have hoped, once her feet are returned to the floor.

Matthew sounds a little dazed, "How was your flight?"

"Uneventful." Then she smiles and the words soften, "I'm just glad to be home."

Because this is it – this is home. Not just England or London or even Westminster but the thought of having someone at the airport who's waiting to see her, someone whose face she can look for in the crowd – a crazy off-balance hug instead of a rush to the front of the taxi queue.

He has this sort of dumbfounded look on his face that she finds strangely flattering; his eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open just an inch as he takes her in standing before him as she does.

"I'm glad you're home as well," he replies after several heartbeats with a sort of warmth that curls pleasantly in her stomach, "I missed you."

"You only saw me a few weeks ago," she reminds him, though mostly in jest.

Matthew doesn't seem to like this suggestion very well and he tugs on her arm with playful roughness, bringing her into him for a slow, indulgent kiss that welcomes her home in the best way possible. She's never been a particularly romantic person but there's something a little bit suave about the grand gesture – the bold moves and the sweep of his hand across her back – that is enough to pull her in at the knees, almost weak.

"Welcome home," he tells her quietly – a shared moment in their busy surrounds.

"Thank you." After a beat, she laughs airily, reprimanding, "You didn't bring a sign. You said you'd bring me a sign."

"If I recall, it was _you_ that mentioned a sign – I made no such promise." He falters, one hand scooping down to lace fingers together tentatively, "I had something... rather different in mind."

"Different?" she cocks an eyebrow.

Everything around them falls away – in a literal sense almost – as Matthew sinks to the floor keeping hold of her hand. She looks down on him, trying in the face of her own surprise to catch up as the weight of the moment seems, all of sudden, to make time move more slowly.

"What are you doing?" she eyes him a little nervously.

"Mary..."

"Are you...?" She stops there. She's only half-aware of what's happening – some far-off part of her drawn in by a sense of anticipation with the rest a little lost to the moment before them and dazzled, grappling to catch up.

He tries again, the wordy heavy and thick with meaning, "I talked to Carson."

"...Carson?" she echoes.

"About the future. About what it is to be worthy."

"And?" Mary's words warm a little. She's catching up.

"And I was thinking some on how... happy we've been. On how hard it was to see you leave and all the reasons I felt you had to go anyway."

"_And_?" she presses one last time with a grin inching its way across her features.

The world around her – around _them_ – narrows to a point, a haze of noise and movement washing around the utter clarity of her hand still in his, of his smile and hers.

"And Mary Crawley," he pauses, seemingly reaching for the words before asking on a breath, "Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Maybe it's a little crazy. Maybe it's too soon and a grand gesture rooted in the ephemeral notion of _feeling_ – the sort of thing that Mary would usually shy away from.

But then, maybe she's spent the last few months learning to be a little more open, a little more brave with emotion.

Maybe she understands how unwavering he's been and the change that has come about – real, positive _change_ – because they've worked together. They work well together, both in a personal and professional sense.

In the end, it's not really something she has to think about. In the blur of thoughts, there's only one answer that she could ever really offer.

"Yes."

.

_**King Carson is at it again**_

by M. Gregson, posted to _Yes, Westminster_

_With his cut glass accent, reserved mannerisms and an occasional haughty charm that reminds us here at _Yes, Westminster_ everyone's favourite Iron Countess, Violet Crawley – our dear PM Charles Carson has made a name for himself for being just a little bit... regal. And not always in a good way. _

_Now come reports that at a lunch today, put on as part of the G8 circus that's come to town, Carson made a swipe about the French Pres's poor table manners while his mic was still on. As our luck would have it, it was overheard by a handful of reporters sent to cover the festivities. Not the best idea for a man whose press team have spent months and years trying to shake the 'King Carson' moniker that always seems to be hanging around. _

_Word on the street is that there's a recording of what was said – the _Yes, Westminster_ team might even have a friend that can hook us up. Watch this space._

_Long live the King!_

.

It's safe to say that Mary's first day back at work is a disaster, all with the help of ten little words: _the French President's manners certainly leave something to be desired._

They're Carson's words to be specific and they're enough to have sent Mary's day into full-on damage control before she's had time to finish her lunch.

"Look Gregson," she grouses into her phone, "It's not the first time something like this has happened – he didn't know his mic was still live and he said something he shouldn't have. To be fair, the French President _was_ using the wrong fork."

"Can I quote you on that?"

She adopts a lightly horrified sort of tone, "_No._"

"What about as a well placed source?"

"Seriously, let's get back to the real world, shall we?" Mary quips – her coarse banter the best way she finds she can deal with reporters. Smoothly, she goes on, "You know why I called."

"You're going to ask me not to post the recording of your boss's little gaffe this morning," Gregson gleans.

"Sharp as ever."

"I'm going to post it."

She has to groan, "You know it will give us trouble in negotiations tomorrow – and he'll become a farce if there's audio; it'll be played on a loop and he'll be a meme before the day is out."

"And that's my problem, how?"

"Oh, I have my ways of _making_ it your problem," Mary warns him lightly.

She really doesn't need this. She doesn't need bargaining and apologising and a news cycle running away from her on her first day back.

"What, you'll keep me out of the loops for a few weeks – no tips, no comments? Maybe this is worth it."

Mary bites the inside of her cheek knowing he's just about on the money. When she says nothing, Gregson continues, "You know, if you went on the record about the fork thing, there might be something I can do."

She quick to a prim retort, "Not going to happen."

"Think about it."

"Oh I won't. But maybe you should think about holding back on the audio in the national interest. It would help if we didn't piss off the French any more than we already have."

"Has anyone ever told you you're quite the diplomat?"

"I'll be ringing you again this afternoon Gregson," she goes to wrap up the call.

He catches her before she can let him go, sliding the words in before she has the chance to ring off, "Yeah, yeah. What about that boyfriend of yours? Did you see my piece about him a few weeks ago?"

"...Why?" Mary asks guardedly.

"If you want something from me it might help if you filled in some of the blanks. I hear there's a ring."

"I'm hanging up now."

"Oh, come on! Does this mean the boyfriend is the _boyfriend_ no more?"

"Hanging up," Mary singsongs. Her personal life is not fodder for political blogs.

"But-"

She jams at the button on her phone with a little more force than really ought to be necessary.

Yes, Mary's first day back is trying to say the least.

After a short moment of sucking the air in through gritted teeth, steeling herself in a manner of speaking, she dials a few more of the journalists on her list – none of whom seems nearly as cocky as Michael Gregson and nowhere near as close to getting a hold of and posting the tape in question. She flicks off an email to Anna who's working on their more formal press response before pressing her forehead to her desk allowing herself the briefest moment when she doesn't have to own the problem or be surrounded by the shit storm that is about to become her start to the week – before resolutely shrugging it off.

Because this is what she signed up for, this is what she came home for and this is what she is better at than anyone else.

She's feeling a lot better by the time the other phone on her desk, her mobile perched at the other end, starts to ring. She reaches for it after checking for the caller and answers with half a smile, "Hello?"

"I think you're going to need to come to tea."

"Granny, it's really not the best ti-"

"I'll send a car."

And so ends the discussion.

With a glance at the clock, Mary starts to gather together her things.

.

Over a cup of tea, the words stiff and haughty, Violet Crawley reprimands her granddaughter, "I wouldn't have had to summon you had you presented yourself to me more readily after your return."

With little other choice and quietly rather pleased for a short break from what had already become a long day, Mary had dutifully done as she'd been asked and gone with the car to her grandmother's townhouse.

There is something almost comforting about sitting, cup of tea in hand, dissecting the day's events.

"I got back on Saturday, Granny," Mary reminds her airily.

"So?"

"It's _Monday_."

"Which means you've been back in the country for at least two days and still didn't bother yourself with contacting your own grandmother," Violet points out with an edge. If Mary didn't know better she might be fooled into thinking she was genuinely offended. "Instead, you've seen it fit to make some viral internet sensation of the nation's Prime Minister when the G8 have only been in town five minutes."

"You know fine and well that I no control over what's happened."

"Perhaps," Violet concedes, "But it _was_ within Carson's control and like it or not, you are Carson's keeper."

"We're working on it. It'll all go away before long."

"Will it?" she doesn't seem so sure. Pursing her lips over her teacup, she begins, "I've made some phone calls..."

A little suspiciously, Mary asks, "What phone calls?"

"It's Michael Gregson – isn't it?"

"You mean with the tape?"

"He's your biggest problem because he's the only one who could feasibly get hold of a recording."

"I know all this," Mary tries to keep the words even. "I've already spoken to him – I can assure you it's all under control."

Violet gives her this little smile, announcing, "Of course it's under control, I've made sure of it."

"What? How?" Without giving her grandmother the chance to answer, she presses on with notes of concern, "What did you do Granny? You know you're not supposed to get yourself too involved."

Feigning innocence, she explains, "I merely spoke with Mr Gregson – you know how fond he is of your sister still – and saw to it that he won't make the recording available publically."

"_How_?"

There's a moment of standoff before Mary arcs an eyebrow, compelling her grandmother to respond.

"Well I said I would give him an attributable quote on the whole affair." It's the pause that comes after, as though there's more to come that makes Mary a little nervous. After a beat, it comes, "...He also needs you to go on the record about why Carson said what he said. You can remain as an unnamed source."

"I already told him I wouldn't do that!"

"Bad manners deserve to be exposed for what they are. As unfortunate as this whole incident may be, Carson was right to pass comment on such poor behaviour; the man is a world leader – he should know how to conduct himself at the table!

There's vaguely horrified silence as Mary tries to find the right thing to say. Violet takes this as her opportunity to pass another choice comment, "I always did find the French woefully lacking when it comes to manners."

"I don't think middle England is going to see it all quite in that way," she replies dryly, before offering a reprimand, "And you shouldn't be making promises that I can't keep Granny, that's not fair."

"I think it's well within your abilities to keep this particular promise," Violet sniffs. "How easily you forget that I was once the Prime Minister myself – and for much longer than Carson has held the office – I know how these things work."

"I don't deny that."

Before Mary can say anything further, her grandmother takes to urging her, "Give him the comment Mary, dear – everyone already knows Carson is a snob. You don't need him to be a laughing stock as well."

"He's not a snob," she defends.

Violet's quick response is spoken as if obvious, "Well that's certainly what much of the wider electorate think."

"No it's not. We have focus group data that-"

"You know I don't agree with all that focus group nonsense. What I know and what that doesn't tell you is that the country knows that our Prime Minister is a bit of snob sometimes – but they like it as part of the whole image he projects. They're fond of Carson and of the way he goes about things."

There's a pause while Violet shoots a knowing look across the table.

When Mary fails to find anything she can say in response, her grandmother asks, "So, will you give Gregson the comment?"

"I think about it," she replies flatly, not giving an inch.

"That's the sort of thing you say when you don't want to admit that you're wrong."

"I'll _think_ about it."

"Very well."

After a few moments of silence, both drinking a little more, Mary picking around the edges of the food on her plate, Violet begins again with careful words laced with a firm opinion that Mary can almost taste, "I hear your mother has formally transferred to Levinson's London office now."

She wonders how long her grandmother has been waiting to ask. How long she's nursed an opinion on the matter just waiting for the chance to air grievances and debate practicalities.

"A few weeks ago, yes. She's heading up the operations there."

"Oh." And then, "So she and your father...?"

"It would seem that they have reconciled on a permanent basis," Mary replies thinly.

"You don't approve?"

"Do you?" She lets the question hang there pointedly for a few moments, before feeling compelled to explain more level-headedly, "They're my mother and father, I _do_ want them to be happy, it's just... after everything that happened between them, everything that Papa did, it can be hard to stomach that _this_ is the right thing."

"It's a very... bold move for your mother to make," Violet observes, though it doesn't seem much like a compliment.

"Of course it is; especially given that with the state of things as they are now, Papa will likely serve time for everything that happened at Downton – on home detention at the very least. But if she's come with all that in mind then I suppose I have to accept that they've worked themselves out." With a careful smile and an odd sense of comfort, Mary finds herself adding, "That's what I've tried to learn from my time away – acceptance rather than control."

"That sounds... unpleasant."

"It's _healthy_ Granny."

"Healthy?" Violet is incredulous, "It seems quite the departure."

"Not really," Mary hedges, "I don't want to _change_, I just need to be more balanced about these things. A couple of months away is hardly going teach me a whole new way to live my life but it did help to give me a bit of... perspective."

There is mild interest as her grandmother asks, "And how does that work exactly?"

"It's like today," she gives herself a moment to find the right way to explain. Violet Crawley is not always the easiest woman to win over. "A few months ago, something like this with Carson would have really bothered me, I would have taken it all very personally; it's slow progress but I did remind myself this morning to stop and take a breath. Whatever you want to say or believe, it has been... easier to manage. I enjoy my work – I _really_ enjoy my work, even on days like today – it doesn't always need to be my fault. I can be the best person to fix the problem without having to shoulder it all at the same time."

There's a considered pause before Violet sniffs, "It all seems a very _modern _notion."

But Mary can only laugh. There was never any way her grandmother was going to think differently – the payoff seems to be in the fact that she doesn't seem to mind.

Her grandmother can think whatever she likes because Mary feels more resolved than she has in a very long time.

First day back, a major crisis under her belt and a solid solution on the horizon – she's fairly certain she can talk him down from a formal comment of her own if Gregson can get Violet Crawley on the record (but she won't be mentioning to her grandmother that particular free kick; no point in encouraging her after all.)

And she's so _glad_ – quite simply happy to be home, to be surrounded by the buzz of news and of the highest echelons of British power at work, to be surrounded once again by people that all care for her in their own unusual ways.

Even if they show it by going rogue and making secret deals with reporters.

She leaves a while later with a fond kiss on the cheek from her grandmother. "I'm glad you're home safely, dear," Violet tells her in a rare honest sort of moment, before brushing it off with a pat on the arm.

In the back of a car back to her office, Mary pulls out her phone to ring Michael Gregson.

She has a crisis to avert.

.

Fond comments about a beautiful bride certainly dominate warm chit chat at the reception – her understated but tasteful and truly gorgeous gown, sleek with its smooth lines and intricate beading, her carefully pinned hair and radiant smile – but later in the night a whole _other_ kind of chatter does the rounds of the function room of a quaint country hotel, where a reception is well underway.

With so many watching eyes and interested parties brought together in one place, an event like this was always going to attract just a little bit of old fashioned _gossip._

The wedding has been a great success – perhaps a little grander than the bride had ever envisioned but so it goes in the line of business of both she and the groom. All the same, the event is intimate and personal in a way that leaves most people a little teary and the reception that carries on late into the night is more of a party than any kind of formal affair.

Yes, the new Mrs Anna Bates knows how to throw an event.

As one among the wedding party, Mary had braced herself for a chaotic day at the very least; instead, she's found that she's enjoyed herself, the sense of occasion and the satisfying fizz of four glasses of champagne over the day making her head pleasantly light. There's a warm, tight sort of feeling that wells up in her chest from time to time as she looks over to see her best friend smiling widely, wrapped together with her new husband, happily accepting the compliments and well-wishes of those people that pass her by.

It's not until Mary takes to the floor, a corner of the room set aside for dancing – a live band playing a mixture of well-loved covers and easy swing that's just about enough to get anyone into the spirit – that this proper gossip takes flight around the room.

It's a slow sort of song and from behind her she hears his approach. His hand slides down her arm and she leans back into him as he asks in low tones, "Will you dance?"

"Of course."

And that's what they do – they dance. Standing close, her arms twisted around his neck and his settled around her hips, they talk and laugh freely, moving easily to the downright sultry sounds from the band.

When she compliments his dancing, his fingers inch along her waist and his cheek grazes hers as he leans down murmur something in response.

"People are talking about us," she observes as his lips skate away from her skin.

Matthew doesn't seem to mind. "Are they?"

"We _are_ awful cosy dancing here," Mary wryly points out.

"Well you're my fiancée," the word rolls off his tongue and with it, Matthew flashes her a proud sort of smile, "and this is a wedding – I would have thought this sort of dancing was more than appropriate."

"Appropriate: yes; expected: probably not. I don't imagine many of the usual political types here would have anticipated seeing the two of us quite _this_ cosy."

"Mmm," he muses contently, almost absently, "I suppose we did keep a lid on things for long enough."

"Necessary as it was at the time," she trills back.

Matthew's words are as low as hers, his mouth still level with her ear as he softly replies, "Not necessary anymore."

She lifts her eyes to his and there's a moment of gleeful understanding before she reaches up to press her lips into his firmly. She can feel him smile as he leans back into her, giving just as good as he gets.

There's something about the titters of the people all around them passing comment at the spectacle that is a rather public showing of affection – it ought to be frustrating or intrusive somehow but instead it's just kind of satisfying.

They're together. She's _together_. They're each in a place where it doesn't need to be some kind of sordid secret any longer.

The semantics of a proper engagement announcement (at Granny's insistence, of course) will be worked out at a later date, a wedding will be planned, a whole life will be shared but for now she's happy for everyone to know that she's _happy_.

Those who are watching on with their opinions on their sleeve can take from this moment what they will.

They break off after several heartbeats pass them by and Mary tucks herself under his chin. They both take to swaying quite happily, far removed from the whispers and goings on of the room around them, once again to music.

"Beautiful wedding," Matthew remarks casually.

"Very."

"We should have one of these."

She can't help it, she just laughs. "We will, just give it a few months. There's planning involved."

With a bit of a nod to some of the people still not-so-subtly looking on and a cheeky little laugh, he spins her outward with a flourish so that she can turn back into him smoothly.

"Whatever you need," Matthew offers with a lilt to his words; it's a joke but also landed in truth somehow. "We've got plenty of time."

.

_If our people feel that they are part of a great nation and they are prepared to will the means to keep it great, a great nation we shall be, and shall remain. So, what can stop us from achieving this? What then stands in our way? The prospect of another winter of discontent? I suppose it might. _

_But I prefer to believe that certain lessons have been learnt from experience, that we are coming, slowly, painfully, to an autumn of understanding. And I hope that it will be followed by a winter of common sense. If it is not, we shall not be diverted from our course._

_To those waiting with bated breath for that favourite media catchphrase, 'the u-turn', I have only one thing to say – you turn if you want to; the lady's __**not for turning**__._

_- Margaret Thatcher (1925-2013)_

.

* * *

**A/N:** I had always planned to end the story with this quote. Before I'd so much as started writing, I set out to find a fitting title and this quote from Thatcher struck a chord right away. While I know many won't agree, she's a lady that I will always admire and this general idea (as well as this political legacy) set the tempo for what became a crazy ambitious and very fun story for me to write. I don't try to suggest the two are in any way comparable, but it feels very right to bring this story to a close this week.

Thank you Em (Tadpole24) for being kick ass, for beta-ing all but one chapter and not even batting an eyelid when they consistently topped 10k words. She may never see this, but thank you Ren (sunsetdreamer) for listening to my rants and always being my cheerleader.

Thank you most of all to you wonderful people for reading my silly little story. Thank you for indulging me when things got a bit twisty political, thank you for always saying nice things and thank you for making me feel like sometimes I can sort of write good. You all rock.

From here, I don't know. I have a couple of ideas for stories that fall within this universe and if things come together, I might write them a little down the track - I do, after all, have a soft spot for this universe of my own making. For now though, this is a happy farewell :)


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